Journal articles on the topic 'Tapestry Themes'

AbstractThis paper is an invitation to contemplate the phenomenon of presence. This is inherently important, in the bigger picture and broader conversation concerning presence and more especially the art of presence as spiritual care. Experience centred narratives are ‘texts’ which bring stories of personal experience into being. The self-narrative (autoethnography) and three additional narratives – co-participants who expressed a willingness to tell their story – is the chosen approach to enable the expression of first-person experience in all its richness, complexity and multiplicity. The essence of presence is portrayed with particular focus on the manifestation, mystery, meaning, movement and ministry dimensions and dynamics of the concept. The patterns and meanings of the lived experience of presence, in the four narratives, emerge beyond the narrative realms of writing, extending into the symbolic realms of art, poetry and music as engaged by the co-informants. This essay is the story of presence in the presence of story – a co-creation of the nature and experience of presence, a tapestry woven on and of the fabric of life.

The author presents the concept of an exhibition dedicated to the tapestry art of ethnic Buryatia since its inception in the region, in the 1970s to the present day. For the first time, in one exhibition were presented the works of 15 authors, performed in different materials and directions. The purpose of the exhibition project is to show the creative achievements of artists, the variety of themes and plots that reflect the specifics of the region. During the preparation for the exhibition, both theoretical and empirical research methods were used: bibliographic sources were studied, meetings, conversations with authors were held in order to obtain a more complete and holistic idea of the concept of the works and the nature of creation. Combining rather disparate materials into a single exhibition concept is currently relevant for the development of modern decorative and applied art in Buryatia in the field of soft materials. As a result, the article presents a kind of artistic space of tapestry art, filled with an individual vision, united by the specifics of expressive means in the field of hand weaving. Автор представляет концепцию выставки, посвященной искусству гобелена этнической Бурятии — со времени его зарождения в регионе в 1970-х гг. до современности. Впервые в одной экспозиции были представлены работы пятнадцати авторов, выполненные в разных материалах и направлениях. Изложена цель выставочного проекта — показать творческие достижения художников, многообразие тем и сюжетов, отражающих специфику региона. В ходе подготовки к выставке использовались как теоретические, так и эмпирические методы исследования: изучались библиографические источники, проводились встречи, беседы с авторами для получения более полного и цельного представления о замысле произведений и характере создания. Объединение довольно разрозненных материалов в единую выставочную концепцию является сегодня актуальным для развития современного декоративно-прикладного искусства Бурятии в области мягких материалов. В статье представлено художественное пространство искусства гобелена, наполненное индивидуальным видением, объединенное спецификой выразительных средств в области ручного ткачества.

Education, and by extension, school-based sexual health education for youth, falls under provincial and territorial jurisdiction in Canada, creating a tapestry of educational experiences across the country. Previous research has found general support for providing sexual health education in schools as reported by teachers, parents, and college/university students. The current study further explores this topic through an examination of the perspectives and opinions of high-school aged youth. The purpose of this study was to develop knowledge to better understand sexual health education experiences in Canada and help determine the extent to which youth feel informed and well supported to develop and maintain their sexual health and participate in healthy sexual and/or romantic relationships. Twelve focus groups were conducted with youth (ages 12–19) across Canada and the transcripts were analyzed using thematic analysis. A total of 10 themes were identified related to what and how youth would like to learn, including four themes about the context and delivery of sexual health education and six themes about the content of sexual health education. Study findings highlight the need for youth perspectives when developing, implementing and evaluating sexual health education and provide insight to help inform recommendations for where educational improvements are warranted.

The articles in this issue encompass topics that range from the musical behaviours of primary school children in Singapore, to the use of podcasting in an undergraduate programme in Wolverhampton, UK, and from the musical role models of secondary school children in Stoke-on-Trent (also in the UK), to the impact of the social and cultural context on school music education in Hong Kong. This issue also brings together articles that explore how university music students develop skills as instrumental and vocal teachers and reconsiders how musical skills can form a meaningful relationship with music education research. These articles, taken together, reflect the richness and diversity of contemporary music education research and the range of contexts in which it takes place. How should music educators respond to the changing tapestry of cultural themes and diversity which underpin the field of music education?

Background As health care becomes more fragmented, it is even more important to focus on the provision of integrated, coordinated care between health and social care systems. With the aging population, this coordination is even more vital. Information and communication technology (ICT) can support integrated care if the form of technology follows and supports functional integration. Health TAPESTRY (Teams Advancing Patient Experience: Strengthening Quality) is a program centered on the health of older adults, supported by volunteers, primary care teams, community engagement and connections, and an ICT known as the Health TAPESTRY application (TAP-App), a web-based application that supports volunteers in completing client surveys, volunteer coordinators in managing the volunteer program, and primary care teams in requesting and receiving information. Objective This paper describes the development, evolution, and implementation of the TAP-App ICT to share the lessons learned. Methods A case study was conducted with the TAP-App as the case and the perspectives of end users and stakeholders as the units of analysis. The data consisted of researchers’ perspectives on the TAP-App from their own experiences, as well as feedback from other stakeholders and end user groups. Data were collected through written retrospective reflection with the program manager, a specific interview with the technology lead, key emailed questions to the TAP-App developer, and viewpoints and feedback during paper drafting from other research team members. There were 2 iterations of Health TAPESTRY and the TAP-App and we focused on learnings from the second implementation (2018-2020) which was a pragmatic implementation scale-up trial using the Reach, Effectiveness, Adoption, Implementation, and Maintenance framework at 6 primary care sites across Ontario, Canada. Results TAP-App (version 1.0), which was iteratively developed, was introduced as a tool to schedule volunteer and client visits and collect survey data using a tablet computer. TAP-App (version 2.0) was developed based on this initial experience and a desire for a program management tool that focused more on dual flow among users and provided better support for research. The themes of the lessons learned were as follows: iterative feedback is valuable; if ICT will be used for research, develop it with research in mind; prepare for challenges in the integration of ICT into the existing workflow; ask whether interoperability should be a goal; and know that technology cannot do it alone yet—the importance of human touch points. Conclusions Health TAPESTRY is human-centered. The TAP-App does not replace these elements but rather helps enable them. Despite this shift in supporting integrated care, barriers remained to the uptake of the TAP-App that would have allowed a full flow of information between health and social settings in supporting patient care. This indicates the need for an ongoing focus on the human use of ICT in similar programs.

Abstract This paper investigates contemporary gender ideologies as manifested in social media during the 2020 coronavirus pandemic. Using a Feminist Critical Discourse Analysis approach, the author analyses jokes in memes and news items posted through social media in the form of videos, pictures, and texts. Specifically, it focuses on how gender stereotypes and ideologies are constructed and sustained through humour, in several themes built upon gendered representations. The author analyses the complex configuration of factors such as beliefs, stereotypes, and ideologies, which, closely interwoven, form the tapestry of the gender order. Additionally, in order to establish the constancy of gender ideologies over time and across cultures, a correlation is made between the gender ideologies reflected in proverbs and those manifested in the internet memes. The study contends that the complex role of humour enhances the subtle propelling of gender stereotypes and ideologies and ultimately, the existing gender status quo.

Despite media suggestions that youth violence is the result of an epidemic of young thugs “out of control”, this paper argues that youth violence is emblematic of complex political, economic and socio-cultural conditions. This introductory paper discusses some of the key themes and articles from our special issue on Youth violence: De-escalation strategies and socio-legal responses, which is the result of a workshop held at the Oñati International Institute for the Sociology of Law in July 2019. It seeks to reflect the rich tapestry of factors, contexts and processes that can place young people at risk of offending, or, perhaps even more importantly, at risk of criminalisation, as presented in the special issue collection. We reflect on the range of perspectives presented across the special issue on youth violence and the de-escalation of such violence, which seek to advance knowledge, and identify strategies for regulating and preventing this behaviour.

Interdisciplinary psycho-spiritual research into workplace stress and self-care is scant noting the fact that negative self-talk and harsh self-judgement stymie the search for inner meaning and self-care. To address this, this article uses an intuitive and reflection-oriented methodology to research self-care choices for the stressed and suffering worker. In particular, it breaks new ground because no workplace-based applied psycho-spiritual research uses bricolage, let alone the heuristic inquiry process which gives expression to it. Bricolage is a tapestry of ideas, themes and possibilities cobbled together to produce creative outcomes. It adapts and co-opts whatever information from whichever discipline that is necessary. This approach appears well suited to the subjective, intuitive nature of workplace stress and suffering and especially where interdisciplinary approaches to self-care are warranted. The heuristic inquiry process which is used for the first time for workplace self-care works intentionally with interior resources that may be unknown or fragmented and dialogues sensitively with inner ‘rules’ or patterns that may have become problematic. Incubation and reflective illumination produce tacit knowledge to augment healing intuition. This process is illustrated by an example. It is about a less intense focus that actively encourages tender, ‘standing apart’ from symptoms so as to allow perspectives to arise and the intuiting of transformative possibilities. From this, self-compassion, humility and meaningful detachment are re-affirmed as ways to pay self-kindly attention and address self-criticism and self-blame. The contribution of the study is threefold. First, it extends bricolage to workplace self-care by considering inner resistance and negative self-talk, both barriers to self-care. Second, it affirms the heuristic inquiry process as an intuitive method for self-care research. Third, and paradoxically, it shows that self-engagement, in a compassionate yet less intense way, can lead to self-care transformation. Finally, limitations to the study and possibilities for future research are discussed.

Abstract The civilian-soldiers that formed the ranks of the Canadian Corps created a unique soldiers’ culture composed of songs, poetry, doggerel, cartoons, and newspapers during the course of the war to cope with the strain of service. This unique soldiers’ culture offers keen insight into soldiers’ experience. The antihero was one of the most important themes running through soldiers’ culture. In a war where soldiers were elevated to heroes by civilians, the soldiers in turn often chose instead to emphasis the antiheroic in their cultural products. There were several antihero archetypes in Canadian soldiers’ culture, and this essay will examine three: British cartoonist Bruce Bairnsfather’s Old Bill, “old soldiers,” and malingers. While these archetypes were separate, with identifiable qualities, they also bled into one another, creating a rich tapestry of anti-heroic cultural products and icons. These antiheroes provided a voice to the soldiers, even at times a language by which the soldiers could make sense of their war experience. The antiheroes were not always emulated, but their unheroic actions resonated with the trench warriors.

Elementary general music teachers have differing perspectives on the meaning and value of assessment, and few studies have examined how the results of assessment are applied in the classroom. In this case study, I investigated how one elementary general music teacher used information from assessments to individualize instruction. Over the course of seven weeks of observation, think-alouds, interviews, and reading the teacher’s journals, I discovered that my guiding questions had implied a simplistic, linear relationship of assessment and differentiation of instruction—that assessment led to individualization. Rather than the direct relationship my questions anticipated, Ms. Stevens’ music teaching was more like a tapestry that included nearly omnipresent threads of assessment and individualized instruction—threads that were often so interwoven as to be somewhat indistinguishable. This article describes the reciprocal, spiraling, intertwined nature of individualized assessment, teaching, and learning in Ms. Stevens’ classroom. I also discuss the related emergent themes of normalizing independent musicking and structuring open-response activities, which were impacted and undergirded by Ms. Stevens’ beliefs regarding the musicality of all children and the purpose of music education.

Into the tapestry of the English language are woven qualities that make human communication so attractive: flexibility, resilience, versatility, clarity, conciseness, to name a few. This article presents a succinct perspective and traces the tumultuous development of the English language from its humble beginnings to the present-day global acceptance as the international means of communication among people in various walks of life, cultures, scientific and local communities, mass media, and any other field in between. Intermediate steps included historical events which switched the focus from other languages to English, as well as its relevance in cultures across the globe. References to attest the validity of such approaches come from researchers, historians, linguists, mass media reporters, and writers. Explaining how English became the first global language is an exercise in world history, not just because it includes most parts of the world but even more because the story of the English language’s spread intersects with so many other themes in world history. In conclusion, whether English is used and taught as a native language, as a second language, or as a foreign language, its historical development will undoubtedly help in understanding how and what made English a powerful communication tool in today’s world. English has assumed a new role as a means of communication and as a medium of instruction in the classroom and it has undergone a dramatic change in terms of its use and users for many diverse social and business purposes in the global community.

Indian English Literature pertains to the body of work by writers from India, who pen strictly in the English language and whose native or co-native language could be one of the numerous regional and indigenous language of India. English literature in India is also intimately linked with the works of associates of the Indian Diaspora. Among other writers, Kiran Desai is one of the most renowned writers in the Indian English Literature. With Kiran Desai, a literary tradition is reborn. One of the major themes in the novel is multiculturalism. Multiculturalism relates to communities containing multiple cultures. The term is used in two broad ways, either descriptively or normatively. As a descriptive term it usually refers to the simple fact of cultural diversity. It is generally applied to the demographic make-up of a specific place, sometimes at the organizational level, eg: school, businesses, cities, or nations. As a normative term, it refers to ideologies or policies that promote this diversity or its institutionalization. In this sense, multiculturalism is a society at ease with the rich tapestry of human life and the desire amongst people to express their own identity in the manner they see as fit. Such ideologies or policies vary widely, including country to country. Another major theme in the novel is globalization, which is a process of international integration arising from the interchange of world views, products, and other aspects of culture. Advances in transportation and telecommunications infrastructure, including the rise of the telegraph and its posterity the Internet, are majorfactors in globalization, generating further interdependence of economic and cultural activities. The term globalization has been increasing use since the mid-1980s and especially since the mid-1990s. The term globalization is derived from the word globalize, which refers to the emergence of an international network ofsocial and economic systems. This paper attempts to analyze Kiran Desai’s novel The Inheritance of Loss to bring out the various aspects of multicultural clashes and globalization.

The paper deals with aesthetic organization of the subject-spatial environment of public interiors by introducing the tapestry object. The author suggests that the introduction of tapestry object into environmental space of public buildings has wide plastic possibilities for organizing the interrelationships of various elements of interior design and creating a harmonious visual environment. The manifestation of such styles as abstractionism, pop-art, abstract expressionism and minimalism in the production of tapestry led to the revival of weaving art. The main unifying principle for the painting and tapestry is the presence of an image, not ornamental and iconic, but plot-themed. Thanks to their virtuoso skills, the weavers were able to reproduce almost any pictorial image with extreme accuracy in a flat lint-free carpet. The study considers examples of the synthesis of architecture and textile art, as well as aspects of the influence of tapestry on the transformation of the environment of the interiors of public buildings of the 20th– 21th centuries. Basing on the analysis of the world experience in the use of tapestry for public interiors, it revealed that this type of art has wide possibilities, both aesthetic and technological. The author concludes that relationship between the plastic forms of architecture and tapestry is able to solve the issues of synthesis of the arts of the 21th century.

This article explores and examines the fundamental need for nurses to include the promotion of the spiritual dimension of the health of human beings as well as the physical, mental and social facets if they truly wish to engage in holistic care. The author attempts to define the phenomenon of spirituality, aware of the dilemma that many individuals face when thinking and reflecting on this very personal and intangible issue. To be spiritual is to become fully human, the article argues, and the reverse is also true. Spirituality in health is inextricable in each person’s search for the discovery of the truth about self and the meaning and purpose of life. Healthy communities are the product of healthy individuals who sow spiritual seeds such as unconditional positive regard, acceptance, respect and dignity for the benefit and advancement of individuals and humankind as a whole. The global nature of the phenomenon of spirituality is also shown by using examples of people who demonstrate compassion and communion with other human beings, in other countries in times of suffering, war and disaster. Compassion and empathy is expressed and experienced for victims of earthquakes that happen miles from home and far removed from personal or religious beliefs. Yet at such times we are all connected in the tapestry of life by our own human spirituality and earthiness. Abstract themes like compassion and justice are treated in the text within the context of spirituality. The author argues that being just and fair means that all patients have the right to achieve spiritual healing regardless of their belief systems, culture or creed. The works of some spiritual philosophers are used to reflect on this integral aspect of human caregiving. Historical symbols of spirituality are examined. The need for nurses to explore and reflect on the paradoxical concepts involved in their own spirituality is highlighted. Nurses are the essential providers of care and, therefore, the paper argues, guardians of that essential humanity that ensures that patients never become less than full human beings, whatever their condition, faith, culture or belief, or whoever they may be. The author contends that this responsibility is uniquely essential to being a nurse.

Mytho-ecologization of tapestry subjects and themes in contemporary textile art is one of the most important trends in the future development of this art type. The masters of contemporary Kazakh tapestry imbue their works with the content that does not only depict one-dimensional beauty or ugliness of the environment but also transmit such meanings as the everlasting value, uniqueness, necessity, fragility and the vital need to reconsider human place in these circumstances. This paper provides an art historical analysis of the tapestries created by the famous Kazakh textile artist Raushan Bazarbayeva, whose work is characterized by the mythoecologization of compositional subjects, the poetic quality of her visual language and the veneration of beauty and promotion of a harmonious co-existence between humans and their environment. We demonstrate that the key to understand such works is to interpret them through the combined lens of rootedness in traditional past and sensitivity to current environmental challenges. Keywords: contemporary Kazakh tapestry, Kazakhstan artistic textile, tapestries by Raushan Bazarbayeva, mythoecologization of consciousness, sustainability, decorative language of tapestry

What a difference a year makes. While Giovanni Arrighi’s Adam Smith in Beijing is a complicated tapestry, threaded with multiple strands and sub-themes, if it offers any single master thesis, it is this: over the last four or so decades, the fading of US primacy and China’s precipitous ascent are dialectically interconnected, structured processes abetting one another. And, for good measure: China’s ascent just might culminate in the formation of a qualitatively novel, world community of market-linked states orbiting around East Asia, but without a dominant center (pp. 7-9). Were I putting together this review in mid-2008, I would express profound skepticism about both theses. Certainly, such skepticism would issue not from the conviction that US global power is invincible, but rather from an evidence-based belief that Arrighi habitually underestimates the extent to which China’s ongoing rise in the world order will be traumatically disrupted by the inevitable wipeout of highly leveraged paper assets on Wall Street (and the City of London, for that matter). Well, in the wake of the planetary financial crisis and economic slump, the early returns on China’s coping capacity are in. The ways in which China is responding to and weathering the storm vindicate more than a few of the claims and insights Arrighi advances in Adam Smith in Beijing, including some that I would have regarded with raised eyebrows a year ago. The thrust of this review is a critical assessment of Adam Smith in Beijing from the standpoint of how well or poorly its theoretical maneuvers and key arguments allow us to make sense of the current shake-up in the global system, with a focus on the interdigitated destinies of China and the US. In this evaluation I will take a page out of Arrighi’s own playbook and try to bear in mind the crucial distinction between geo-economic and geopolitical ebbs and flows of the moment and longer-term hegemonic ruptures and transformations.

This is my autoethnography about living with Facial Eye Disfigurement (FED). The purpose of this autoethnography is to answer the question, “What are the lived experiences of people living with FED?” There are wide and varying issues faced by people living with facial disfigurement (FD), for example, dealing with psychosocial and psychological aspects, the lived experiences and voices of persons with FED are nowhere in the research literature. The themes presented here are not unique to FED but illustrate how far and wide the phenomenon occurs, themes such as, social isolation, bullying, gatekeepers, discrimination, and hope. The themes are woven into the vignettes presented; all are inextricably woven together like a finely crafted tapestry. In my discussion four foundation blocks are explored: forgiveness; active intentional decisions; healthy self-esteem; spirituality and resilience. These are seen to be the underlying contributors towards why I hold such a positive attitude towards life, despite the everyday grind of explaining myself. In conclusion, I found the voices of FED require assistance and active engagement within the FED/FD community as well as the general public to dismantle myths such as “the greater the disfigurement, the greater the distress.” I founded Karibu Anawim in 2015 which endeavours to train, equip, and nurture people living with FED/FD and the general public.

Purpose PhD graduates are increasingly taking non-academic roles outside and inside universities. While effective communication is a frequently mentioned concern among employers, little is known about what actual communication PhD graduates do as part of their work. The purpose of this study is to examine the nature of work-related communication activities by PhDs in non-academic sectors. Design/methodology/approach The conceptual framework presented in this paper focused on the intersection between individual day-to-day experience and work structures through the analytic lens of genre knowledge. Using a narrative approach, attending to both individual experience and cross-case patterns, the authors conducted semi-structured interviews with 11 PhD holders in non-academic careers. Interviews and related documents were analyzed inductively for emerging themes and deductively for cross-case patterns. Findings In pursuing organizational goals, PhD graduates undertook diverse writing and other communication work and developed a rich tapestry of genre knowledge. This knowledge enabled them to negotiate different encounters with specific genres, undertake new genres and mediate among different genres. Originality/value This study highlighted the value of framing future research around a) the intersection between individual communication experience and organizational factors; and b) the analytic lens of genre knowledge to understand how organizational roles and goals lead to diverse communication practices. As for practical implications, the organizationally bounded roles and goals influencing participants’ communication practices also hold true for those doing PhDs where success requires mastering a limited academic set of genres. While the authors cannot prepare PhD graduates for all the genres they may need, the authors could explicitly teach how genres work in the PhD context.

I can remember setting up the dish, all the excitement of assembling it [...] and then putting the motor on. And in the late afternoon, you position the dish and kind of turn it, to find the right spot, and all of a sudden on this blank television screen there was an image that came on. And it was shocking knowing that this noise and this thing would be there, and begin to infiltrate – because I see it as an infiltration, I see it as invasion – I’m not mad on television, very choosy really about what I watch – and I see it as an invasion, and there was GWN as well as the ABC. I just thought ‘by golly, I’m in the process of brain-washing people to accept stuff without thinking about it, like consciously considering either side of any case’ [...] The one thing that protected you from having it on at all times was the need to put on the generator in order to power it. I felt a bit sad actually. (Savannah Kingston, Female, 55+ – name changed – homestead respondent) This paper addresses the huge communications changes that occurred over the past fifty years in outback Western Australia. (What happened in WA also has parallels with equivalent events in the Northern Territory, Queensland, in the larger properties in western New South Wales and northern South Australia.) Although the ‘coming of television’ – associated in remote areas with using a satellite dish to scan for the incoming signal – is typically associated with a major shift in community and cultural life, the evidence suggests that the advent of the telephone had an equivalent or greater impact in remote areas. With the introduction of the telephone, the homestead family no longer had to tune into (or scan) the radio frequencies to check on predicted weather conditions, to respond to emergencies, to engage in roll call or to hold a ‘public meeting’. As the scanning of the radio frequencies ended, so the scanning of the satellite signals began. As Sandstone resident Grant Coleridge (pseudonym, male, 40-54) said, only half ironically, “We got the telephone and the telly at the same time, so civilisation sort of hit altogether actually.” The scale and importance of changes to the technological communications infrastructure in remote WA within a single life-time spans pre-2-way radio to video livestock auctions by satellite. It comes as a surprise to most Australians that these changes have occurred in the past generation. As recent viewers of the unexpectedly-successful Mongolian film The Story of the Weeping Camel (2004) would know, one of the themes of the Oscar-nominated movie is the coming of television and its impact upon a traditional rural life. The comparative availability of television outside the rural areas of Mongolia – and its attraction to, particularly, the younger family members in the Weeping Camel household – is a motif that is explored throughout the narrative, with an unspoken question about the price to be paid for including television in the cultural mix. It’s easy to construct this story as a fable about the ‘exotic other’, but the same theme was played out comparatively recently in remote Western Australia, where the domestic satellite service AUSSAT first made television an affordable option just under twenty years ago. This paper is about the people in remote Western Australia who started scanning for the satellite signal in 1986, and stopped scanning for the RFDS (Royal Flying Doctor Service) 2-way radio phone messages at about the same time. Savannah Kingston (name changed), who in 1989 generously agreed to an in-depth interview discussing the impact of satellite broadcasting upon her outback life, was a matriarch on a rural property with four grown children. She had clear views upon ways in which life had changed dramatically in the generation before the satellite allowed the scanning of the television signal. Her recollection of the weft and warp of the tapestry of life in outback WA started thirty-five years previously, with her arrival on the station as a young wife: When I went there [mid-1950s], we had a cook and we ate in the dining room. The cook and anyone who worked in the house ate in the kitchen and the men outside ate in the outside. So, with the progress of labour away from the bush, and the cost of labour becoming [prohibitive] for a lot of people, we got down to having governesses or house-girls. If the house-girls were white, they ate at the table with us and the governesses ate with us. If the house-girls were Aboriginal, they didn’t like eating with us, and they preferred to eat in the kitchen. The kids ate with them. Which wasn’t a good idea because two of my children have good manners and two of them have appalling manners. The availability of domestic help supported a culture of hospitality reminiscent of British between-the-wars country house parties, recreated in Agatha Christie novels and historically-based films such as The Remains of the Day (1993): In those early days, we still had lots of visitors [...] People visited a lot and stayed, so that you had people coming to stay for maybe two or three days, five days, a week, two weeks at a time and that required a lot of organisation. [int:] WHERE DID YOUR VISITORS COME FROM? City, or from the Eastern states, occasionally from overseas. [Int:] WOULD THEY BE RELATIVES? Sometimes relatives, friends or someone passing through who’d been, you know, someone would say ‘do visit’ and they’d say ‘they’d love to see you’. But it was lovely, it was good. It’s a way of learning what’s going on. (Savannah Kingston.) The ‘exotic other’ of the fabled hospitality of station life obscures the fact that visitors from the towns, cities and overseas were a major source of news and information in a society where radio broadcasts were unpredictable and there was no post or newspaper delivery. Visitors were supplemented by a busy calendar of social events that tied together a community of settlements in gymkhanas, cricket fixtures and golf tournaments (on a dirt course). Shifts in the communications environment – the introduction of television and telephone – followed a generation of social change witnessing the metamorphosis of the homestead from the hub of a gentrified lifestyle (with servants, governesses, polo and weekends away) to compact, efficient business-units, usually run by a skeleton staff with labour hired in at the peak times of year. Over the years between the 1960s-1980s isolation became a growing problem. Once Indigenous people won the fight for award-rate wages their (essentially) unpaid labour could no longer support the lifestyle of the station owners and the absence of support staff constrained opportunities for socialising off the property, and entertaining on it, and the communication environment became progressively poorer. Life on the homestead was conceived of as being more fragile than that in the city, and more economically vulnerable to a poor harvest or calamities such as wildfire. The differences wrought by the introduction of newer communication technologies were acknowledged by those in the country, but there was a clear resistance to city-dwellers constructing the changes as an attack upon the romance of the outback lifestyle. When the then Communications Minister Tony Staley suggested in 1979 that a satellite could help “dispel the distance – mental as well as geographical – between urban and regional dwellers, between the haves and the have-nots in a communication society”, he was buying into a discourse of rural life which effectively disempowered those who lived in rural and remote areas. He was also ignoring the reality of a situation where the Australian outback was provided with satellite communication a decade after it was made available to Canadians, and where the king-maker in the story – Kerry Packer – stood to reap a financial windfall. There was a mythological dimension to Australia (finally) having a domestic satellite. Cameron Hazelhurst’s article on ‘The Dawn of the Satellite Era in Australia’ includes a colourful account of Kerry Packer’s explanation to Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser of the capacity of domestic satellites to bring television, radio and telephone services to isolated communities in arctic Canada: And I [Packer] went and saw the Prime Minister and I explained to him my understanding of what was happening in those areas, and to his undying credit he grasped on to it immediately and said ‘Of course, it’s what we want. It’s exactly the sort of thing we need to stop the drift of people into urban areas. We can keep them informed. We can allow them to participate in whatever’s happening around the nation (Day 7, cited in Hazelhurst). Fraser here, as someone with experience of running a rural property in Victoria, propounds a pro-country rhetoric as a rationale for deployment of the satellite in terms of the Australian national policy agenda. (The desire of Packer to network his television stations and couple efficiency with reach is not addressed in this mythological reconstruction.) It is difficult, sometimes, to appreciate the level of isolation experienced on outback properties at the time. As Bryan Docker (male, 40-54), a resident of Broome at the time of the interviews, commented, “Telegrams, in those days, were the life-blood of the stations, through the Flying Doctor Service. But at certain times of the year the sun spots would interfere with the microwave links and we were still on morse from Broome to Derby during those periods.” Without reliable shortwave radio; with no television, newspapers or telephone; and with the demands of keeping the RFDS (Royal Flying Doctor Service) 2-way radio channel open for emergencies visitors were one of the ways in which station-dwellers could maintain an awareness of current events. Even at the time of the interviews, after the start of satellite broadcasting, I never travelled to an outback property without taking recent papers and offering to pick up post. (Many of the stations were over an hour’s journey from their nearest post office.) The RFDS 2-way radio service offered a social-lifeline as well as an emergency communication system: [Int:] DO YOU MISS THE ROYAL FLYING DOCTOR SERVICE AT ALL? Yes, I do actually. It’s – I think it’s probably more lonely now because you used to switch it on and – you know if you’re here on your own like I am a lot – and you’d hear voices talking, and you used to know what everybody was doing – sort of all their dramas and all their [...] Now you don’t know anything that’s going on and unless somebody rings you, you don’t have that communication, where before you used to just hop over to another channel and have a chat [...] I think it is lonelier on the telephone because it costs so much to ring up. (Felicity Rohrer, female, 40-54, homestead.) Coupled with the lack of privacy of 2-way radio communication, and the lack of broadcasting, was the particular dynamic of a traditional station family. Schooled at home, and integrated within their homestead lifestyle, station children spent most of their formative years in the company of one or other of their parents (or, in previous decades, the station staff). This all changed at secondary school age when the children of station-owners and managers tended to be sent away to boarding school in the city. Exposure of the next generation to the ways of city life was seen as a necessary background to future business competence, but the transitions from ‘all’ to ‘next-to-nothing’ in terms of children’s integration within family life had a huge socio-emotional cost which was aggravated, until the introduction of the phone service, by the lack of private communication channels. Public Relations and news theory talk about the importance of the ‘environmental scan’ to understand how current events are going to impact upon a business and a family: for many years in outback Australia the environmental scan occurred when families got together (typically in the social and sporting rounds), on the RFDS radio broadcasts and ‘meetings’, in infrequent visits to the closest towns and through the giving and receiving of hospitality. Felicity Rohrer, who commented (above) about how she missed the RFDS had noted earlier in her interview: “It’s made a big difference, telephone. That was the most isolating thing, especially when your children were away at school or your parents are getting older [...] That was the worst thing, not having a phone.” Further, in terms of the economics of running a property, Troy Bowen (male, 25-39, homestead respondent) noted that the phone had made commercial life much easier: I can carry out business on the phone without anyone else hearing [...] On the radio you can’t do it, you more or less have to say ‘well, have you got it – over’. ‘Yeah – over’. ‘Well, I’ll take it – over’. That’s all you can do [...] Say if I was chasing something [...] the cheapest I might get it down to might be [...] $900. Well I can go to the next bloke and I can tell him I got it down to $850. If you can’t do any better than that, you miss out. ‘oh, yes, alright $849, that’s the best I can do.’ So I’ll say ‘alright, I’ll take it’. But how can you do that on the radio and say that your best quote is [$850] when the whole district knows that ‘no, it isn’t’. You can’t very well do it, can you? This dynamic occurs because, for many homestead families prior to the telephone, the RFDS broadcasts were continuously monitored by the women of the station as a way of keeping a finger on the pulse of the community. Even – sometimes, especially – when they were not part of the on-air conversation, the broadcast could be received for as far as reception was possible. The introduction of the phone led to a new level of privacy, particularly appreciated by parents who had children away at school, but also introduced new problems. Fran Coleridge, (female, 40-54, Sandstone) predicted that: The phone will lead to isolation. There’s an old lady down here, she’s about 80, and she housekeeps for her brother and she’s still wearing – her mother died 50 years ago – but she’s still wearing her clothes. She is so encapsulated in her life. And she used to have her [RFDS] transceiver. Any time, Myrtle would know anything that’s going on. Anything. Birthday party at [local station], she’d know about it. She knew everything. Because she used to have the transceiver on all the time. And now there’s hardly any people on, and she’s a poor little old lonely lady that doesn’t hear anything now. Can you see that? Given the nuances of the introduction of the telephone (and the loss of the RFDS 2-way), what was the perceived impact of satellite broadcasting? Savannah Kingston again: Where previously we might have sat around the table and talked about things – at least the kids and I would – with television there is now more of a habit of coming in, showering and changing for dinner, putting on the motor and the men go and sit in front of the television during [...] six o’clock onwards, news programs and whatnot and um, I find myself still in the kitchen, getting the meal and then whoever was going to eat it, wanting to watch whatever was on the television. So it changed quite appreciably. Felicity Rohrer agrees: [Int:] DO YOU THINK THERE HAVE BEEN CHANGES IN THE TIME THAT YOU SPEND WITH EACH OTHER? Yes, I think so. They [the homestead household] come home and they – we all sit down here and look at the news and have a drink before tea whereas people used to be off doing their own tea. [Int] SO YOU THINK IT’S INCREASED THE AMOUNT OF TIME YOU SPEND TOGETHER? Yes, I think so – well, as a family. They all try and be home by 6 to see the [GWN] news. If they miss that, we look at the 7 o’clock [ABC], but they like the Golden West because it’s got country news in it. But the realities of everyday life, as experienced in domestic contexts, are sometimes ignored by commentators and analysts, except insofar as they are raised by interviewees. Thus the advent of the satellite might have made Savannah Kingston feel “a bit sad actually”, but it had its compensations: It was definitely a bit of a peace-maker. It sort of meant there wasn’t the stress that we had previously when going through [...] at least people sitting and watching something, you’re not so likely to get into arguments or [...] It definitely had value there. In fact, when I think about it, that might be one of its major applications, ’cos a lot of men in the bush tend to come in – if they drink to excess they start drinking in the evening, and that can make for very uncomfortable company. For film-makers like the Weeping Camel crew – and for audiences and readers of historical accounts of life in outback Australia – the changes heralded by the end of scanning the RFDS channels, and the start of scanning for satellite channels, may seem like the end of an era. In some ways the rhythms of broadcasting helped to homogenise life in the country with life in the city. For many families in remote homes, as well as the metropolis, the evening news became a cue for the domestic rituals of ‘after work’. A superficial evaluation of communications changes might lead to a consideration of how some areas of life were threatened by improved broadcasting, while others were strengthened, and how some of the uniqueness of a lifestyle had been compromised by an absorption into the communication patterns of urban life. It is unwise for commentators to construct the pre-television past as an uncomplicated romantic prior-time, however. Interviews with those who live such changes as their reality become a more revealing indicator of the nuances and complexities of communications environments than a quick scan from the perspective of the city-dweller. References Day, C. “Packer: The Man and the Message.” The Video Age (February 1983): 7 (cited in Hazelhurst). Hazelhurst, Cameron. “The Dawn of the Satellite Era.” Media Information Australia 58 (November 1990): 9-22. Staley, Tony. Commonwealth Parliamentary Debates. Canberra: House of Representatives Hansard (18 October 1979): 2225, 2228-9. The Remains of the Day. 1993. The Story of the Weeping Camel. Thinkfilm and National Geographic, 2004. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Green, Lelia. "Scanning the Satellite Signal in Remote Western Australia." M/C Journal 8.4 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/01-green.php>. APA Style Green, L. (Aug. 2005) "Scanning the Satellite Signal in Remote Western Australia," M/C Journal, 8(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/01-green.php>.

Introduction Amidst ecological collapse and environmental catastrophe, humankind is surrounded by indications that our habitat is turning against us in monstrous ways. The very environments we live within now evoke existential terror, and this state of ecological monstrosity has permeated popular media, including video games. Such cultural manifestations of planetary catastrophe are particularly evident in video game monsters. These virtual figures continue monsters’ long-held role in reflecting the socio-cultural anxieties of their particular era. The horrific figures that monsters present play a culturally reflexive role, echoing the fears and anxieties of their social, political and cultural context. Media monsters closely reflect their surrounding cultural conditions (Cohen 47), representing “a symptom of or a metaphor for something bigger and more significant than the ostensible reality of the monster itself” (Hutchings 37). Society’s deepest anxieties culminate in these figures in forms that are “threatening and impure” (Carroll 28), “unnatural, transgressive, obscene, contradictory” (Kearney 4–5), and abject (Kristeva 4). In this article I ask how the appearance of the monstrous within contemporary video games reflects an era of climate change and ecological collapse, and how this could inform the engagement of players with discourse concerning climate change. Central to this inquiry is the literary practice of ecocriticism, which seeks to examine environmental rather than human representation in cultural artefacts, increasingly including accounts of contemporary ecological decay and disorder (Bulfin 144). I build on such perspectives to address play encounters that foreground figures of monstrosity borne of the escalating climate crisis, and summarise case studies of two recent video games undertaken as part of this project — The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (Nintendo EPD) and The Last of Us Part II (Naughty Dog). An ecocritical approach to the monsters that populate these case studies reveals the emergence of a ludic form of ecological monstrosity tied closely to our contemporary climatic conditions and taking two significant forms: one accentuating a visceral otherness and aberrance, and the other marked by the uncanny recognition of human authorship of climate change. Horrors from the Anthropocene A growing climate emergency surrounds us, enveloping us in the abject and aberrant conditions of what could be described as an ecological monstrosity. Monstrous threats to our environment and human survival are experienced on a planetary scale and research evidence plainly illustrates a compounding catastrophe. The United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), a relatively cautious and conservative body (Parenti 5), reports that a human-made emergency has developed since the Industrial Revolution. The multitude of crises that confront us include: changes in the Earth’s atmosphere driving up global temperatures, ice sheets in retreat, sea levels rising, natural ecosystems and species in collapse, and an unprecedented frequency and magnitude of heatwaves, droughts, flooding, winter storms, hurricanes, and wildfires (United Nations Environment Programme). Further human activity, including a post-war addiction to the plastics that have now spread their way across our oceans like a “liquid smog” (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 258), or short-sighted enthusiasm for pesticides, radiation energy, and industrial chemicals (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 254), has ensured a damaging shift in the nature of the feedback loops that Earth’s ecosystems depend upon for stability (Parenti 6). Climatic equilibrium has been disrupted, and growing damage to the ecosystems that sustain human life suggests an inexorable, entropic path to decay. To understand Earth’s profound crisis requires thinking beyond just climate and to witness the interconnected “extraordinary burdens” placed on our planet by “toxic chemistry, mining, nuclear pollution, depletion of lakes and rivers under and above ground, ecosystem simplification, vast genocides of people” which will continue to lead to the recursive collapse of interlinked major systems (Haraway 100). To speak of climate change is really to speak of the ruin of ecologies, those “living systems composed of many moving parts” that make up the tapestry of organic life on Earth (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 251). The emergency that presents itself, as Renata Tyszczuk observes, comprises a pervasiveness, uncertainty, and interdependency that together “affect every aspect of human lives, politics and culture” (47). The emergence of the term Anthropocene (or the Age of the Humans) to describe our current geological epoch (and to supersede the erstwhile and more stable Holocene) (Zalasiewicz et al. 1036–7; Chang 7) reflects a contemporary impossibility with talking about planet Earth without acknowledging the damaging impact of humankind on its ecosystems (Bulfin 142). This recognition of human complicity in the existential crisis engulfing our planet once again connects ecological monstrosity to the socio-cultural history of the monstrous. Monsters, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen points out, “are our children” and despite our repressive efforts, “always return” in order to “ask us why we have created them” (20). Ecological monstrosity declares to us that our relegation of greenhouse gases, rising sea levels, toxic waste, species extinction, and much more, to the discursive periphery has only been temporary. Monsters, when examined closely, start to look a lot like ourselves in terms of biological origins (Perron 357), as well as other abject cultural and social markers that signal these horrific figures as residing “too close to the borders of our [own] subjectivity for comfort” (Spittle 314). Isabel Pinedo sees this uncanny nature of the horror genre’s antagonists as a postmodern condition, a ghoulish reminder of the era’s breakdown of categories, blurring of boundaries, and collapse of master narratives that combine to ensure “mastery is lost … and the stable, unified, coherent self acquires the status of a fiction” (17–18). In standing in for anxiety, the other, and the aberrant, the figure of the monster deftly turns the mirror back on its human victims. Ecocritical Play The vast scale of ecological collapse has complicated effective public communication on the subject. The scope involved is unsettling, even paralysing, to its audiences: climate change might just be “too here, too there, too everywhere, too weird, too much, too big, too everything” to bring oneself to engage with (Tyszczuk 47). The detail involved has also been captured by scientific discourse, a detached communicative mode which too easily obviates the everyday human experience of the emergency (Bulfin 140; Abraham and Jayemanne 74–76). Considerable effort has been focussed upon producing higher-fidelity models of ecological catastrophe (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 248), rather than addressing the more significant “trouble with representing largely intangible linkages” between micro-environmental actions and macro-environmental repercussions (Chang 86). Ecocriticism is, however, emerging as a cultural means by which the crisis, and restorative possibilities, may be rendered more legible to a wider audience. Representations of ecology and catastrophe not only sustain genres such as Eco-Disaster and Cli-Fi (Bulfin 140), but are also increasingly becoming a precondition for fiction centred upon human life (Tyszczuk 47). Media artefacts concerned with environment are able to illustrate the nature of the emergency alongside “a host of related environmental issues that the technocratic ‘facts and figures’ approach … is unlikely to touch” (Abraham and Jayemanne 76) and encourage in audiences a suprapersonal understanding of the environmental impact of individual actions (Chang 70). Popular culture offers a chance to foster ‘ecological thought’ wherein it becomes “frighteningly easy … to join the dots and see that everything is interconnected” (Morton, Ecological Thought 1) rather than founder before the inexplicability of the temporalities and spatialities involved in ecological collapse. An ecocritical approach is “one of the most crucial—yet under-researched—ways of looking into the possible cultural impact of the digital entertainment industry” upon public discourse relating to the environment crisis (Felczak 185). Video games demand this closer attention because, in a mirroring of the interconnectedness of Earth’s own ecosystems, “the world has also inevitably permeated into our technical artefacts, including games” (Chang 11), and recent scholarship has worked to investigate this very relationship. Benjamin Abraham has extended Morton’s arguments to outline a mode of ecological thought for games (What Is an Ecological Game?), Alenda Chang has closely examined how games model natural environments, and Benjamin Abraham and Darshana Jayemanne have outlined four modes in which games manifest players’ ecological relationships. Close analysis of texts and genres has addressed the capacity of game mechanics to persuade players about matters of sustainability (Kelly and Nardi); implicated Minecraft players in an ecological practice of writing upon landscapes (Bohunicky); argued that Final Fantasy VII’s plot fosters ecological responsibility (Milburn); and, identified in ARMA III’s ambient, visual backdrops of renewable power generation the potential to reimagine cultural futures (Abraham, Video Game Visions). Video games allow for a particular form of ecocriticism that has been overlooked in existing efforts to speak about ecological crisis: “a politics that includes what appears least political—laughter, the playful, even the silly” (Morton, Dark Ecology 113). Play is liminal, emergent, and necessarily incomplete, and this allows its various actors—players, developers, critics and texts themselves—to come together in non-authoritarian, imaginative and potentially radical ways. Through play, audiences are offered new and novel modes for envisioning ecological problems, solutions, and futures. To return, then, to encounters with ecological monstrosity, I next consider the visions of crisis that emerge through the video game monsters that draw upon the aberrant nature of ecological collapse, as well as those that foreground our own complicity as humans in the climate crisis, declaring that we players might ourselves be monstrous. The two case studies that follow are necessarily brief, but indicate the value of further research and textual analysis to more fully uncover the role of ecological monstrosity in contemporary video games. Breath of the Wild’s Corrupted Ecology The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (Nintendo EPD) is a fantasy action-adventure game in which players adopt the role of the games series’ long-running protagonist, Link, and explore the virtual landscapes of fictional Hyrule in unstructured and nonlinear ways. Landscape is immediately striking to players of Breath of the Wild, with the game using a distinctive, high-definition cel-shaded animation style to vividly render natural environments. Within the first ten minutes of play, lush green grass sways around the player’s avatar, densely treed forests interrupt rolling vistas, and finely detailed mountains tower over the player’s perspective. The player soon learns, however, that behind these inviting landscapes lies a catastrophic corruption of natural order, and that their virtual enemies will manifest a powerful monstrosity that seems to mirror Earth’s own ecological crises. The game’s backstory centres around the Zelda series’ persistent antagonist, Ganon, and his use of a primal form of evil to overwhelm a highly evolved and industrialised Hyrulian civilisation, in an event dubbed the Great Calamity. Hyrule’s dependency on mechanical technology in its defences is misjudged, and Ganon’s re-appearance causes widespread devastation. The parallel between Hyrule’s fate and humankind’s own unsustainable commitment to heavy industry and agriculture, and faith in technological approaches to mitigation in the face of looming catastrophe, are immediately recognisable. Visible, too, is the echo of the revenge of Earth’s climate in the organic and primal force of Ganon’s destructive power. Ganon leaves in his wake an array of impossible, aberrant creatures hostile to the player, including the deformed humanoid figure of the Bokoblin (bearing snouts, arrow-shaped tails, and a horn), the sand-swimming spike-covered whale known as a Molduga, and the Stone Talus, an anthropomorphic rock formation that bursts into life out of otherwise innocuous geological features. One particularly apposite monster, known simply as Malice, is a glowing black and purple substance that oozes its way through environments in Hyrule, spreading to cover and corrupt organic material. Malice is explained by in-game introductory text as “poisonous bogs formed by water that was sullied during the Great Calamity”—an environmental element thrown out of equilibrium by pollution. Monstrosity in Breath of the Wild is decidedly ecological, and its presentation of unstable biologies, poisoned waters, and a collapsed natural order offer a conspicuous display of our contemporary climate crisis. Breath of the Wild places players in a traditional position in relation to its virtual monsters: direct opposition (Taylor 31), with a clear mandate to eliminate the threat(s) and restore equilibrium (Krzywinska 12). The game communicates its collection of biological impossibilities and inexorable corruptions as clear aberrations of a once-balanced natural order, with Hyrule’s landscapes needing purification at the player’s hands. Video games are driven, according to Jaroslav Švelch, by a logic of informatic control when it comes to virtual monsters, where our previously “inscrutable and abject” antagonists can be analysed, defined and defeated as “the medium’s computational and procedural nature makes monstrosity fit into databases and algorithms” (194). In requiring Link, and players, to scrutinise and come to “know” monsters, the game suggests a particular ecocritical possibility. Ecological monstrosity becomes educative, placing the terrors of the climate crisis directly before players’ avatars, screens, and eyes and connecting, in visceral ways, mastery over these threats with pleasure and achievement. The monsters of Breath of the Wild offer the possibility of affectively preparing players for versions of the future by mediating such engagements with disaster and catastrophe. Recognising the Monstrosity Within Set in the aftermath of the outbreak of a mutant strain of the Cordyceps fungus (through exposure to which humans transform into aggressive, zombified ‘Infected’), The Last of Us Part II (Naughty Dog) is a post-apocalyptic action-adventure game. Players alternate between two playable human characters, Ellie and Abby, whose travels through the infection-ravaged states of Wyoming, Washington, and California overlap and intertwine. At first glance, The Last of Us Part II appears to construct similar forms of ecology and monstrosity as Breath of the Wild. Players are thrust into an experience of the sublime in the game’s presentation of natural environments that are vastly capacious and highly fidelitous in their detailing. Players begin the game scrambling across snowbound ranges and fleeing through thick forests, and later encounter lush grass, rushing rivers, and wild animals reclaiming once-urban environments. And, as in Breath of the Wild, monstrosity in this gameworld appears to embody impurity and corruption, whether through the horrific deformations of various types of zombie bodies, or the fungal masses that carpet many of the game’s abandoned buildings in a reclamation of human environments by nature. Closer analysis, however, demonstrates that the monstrosity that defines the play experience of The Last of Us Part II uncannily reflects the more uncomfortable truths of the Anthropocentric era. A key reason why zombies are traditionally frightening is because they are us. The semblance of human faces and bodies that remain etched into these monsters’ decaying forms act as portents for our own fates when faced with staggering hordes and overwhelmingly poor odds of survival. Impure biologies are presented to players in these zombies, but rather than represent a distant ‘other’ they stand as more-than-likely futures for the game’s avatars, just as Earth’s climate crisis is intimately bound up in human origins and inexorable futures. The Last of Us Part II further pursues its line of anthropocentric critique, as both Ellie and Abby interact during the game with different groupings of human survivors, including hubristic militia and violent religious cultists. The player comes to understand through these encounters that it is the distrust, dogmatism, and depravity of their fellow humans that pose immediate threats to avatarial survival, rather than the scrutable, reliable, and predictable horrors of the mindless zombies. In keeping with the appearance of monsters in both interactive and cinematic texts, monsters’ most important lessons emerge when the boundaries between reality and fiction, human and nonhuman, and normality and abnormality become blurred. The Last of Us Part II utilises this underlying ambiguity in monstrosity to suggest a confronting ecological claim: that monstrous culpability belongs to us—the inhabitants of Earth. For video game users in particular, this is a doubly pointed accusation. As Thomas Apperley and Darshana Jayemanne observe of digital games, “however much their digital virtuality is celebrated they are enacted and produced in strikingly visceral—ontologically virtual—ways”, and such a materialist consideration “demands that they are also understood as objects in the world” (15). The ecological consequences of the production of such digital objects are too often taken for granted, despite critical work examining the damaging impact of resource extraction, electronic waste, energy transfer, telecommunications transfer, and the logics of obsolescence involved (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter; Newman; Chang 152). By foregrounding humanity’s own monstrosity, The Last of Us Part II illustrates what Timothy Morton describes as the “weirdly weird” consequences of human actions during the Anthropocene; those uncanny, unexpected, and planetarily destructive outcomes of the post-industrial myth of progress (Morton, Dark Ecology 7). The ecocritical work of video games could remind players that so many of our worst contemporary nightmares result from human hubris (Weinstock 286), a realisation played out in first-person perspective by Morton: “I am the criminal. And I discover this via scientific forensics … I’m the detective and the criminal!” (Dark Ecology 9). Playing with Ecological Monstrosity The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild and The Last of Us Part II confront players with an ecological form of monstrosity, which is deeply recursive in its nature. Players encounter monsters that stand in for socio-political anxieties about ecological disaster as well as those that reflect humanity’s own monstrously destructive hubris. Attention is further drawn to the player’s own, lived role as a contributor to climate crisis, a consequence of not only the material characteristics of digital games, but also their broader participation in the unsustainable economics of the post-industrial age. To begin to make the connections between these recursive monsters and analogies is to engage in the type of ecological thought that lets us see the very interconnectedness that defines the ecosystems we have damaged so fatally. In understanding that video games are the “point of convergence for a whole array of technical, cultural, and promotional dynamics of which [players] are, at best, only partially aware” (Kline, Dyer-Witheford, and de Peuter 19), we see that the nested layering of anxieties, fears, fictions, and realities is fundamental to the very fabric of digital games. Recursion, Donna Haraway observes in relation to the interlinked failure of ecosystems, “can be a drag” (100), but I want to suggest that playing with ecological monstrosity instead turns recursion into opportunity. An ecocritical approach to the examination of contemporary videogame monsters demonstrates that these horrific figures, through their primordial aesthetic and affective impacts, are adept at foregrounding the ecosystemic nature of the relationship between games and our own world. Videogames play a role in representing both desirable and objectionable versions of the world, and such “utopian and dystopian projections of the future can shape our acts in the present” (Fordyce 295). By confronting players with viscerally accessible encounters with the horror of an aberrant and abjected near future (so near that it is, in fact, already the present), games such as Breath of the Wild and The Last of Us Part II can critically position players in relation to discourse and wider public debate about ecological issues and climate change (and further research could more closely examine players’ engagements with ecological monstrosity). Drawing attention to the symmetry between monstrosity and ecological catastrophe is a crucial way that contemporary games might encourage players to untangle the recursive environmental consequences of our anthropocentric era. Morton argues that beneath the abjectness that has come to define our human co-existence with other ecological actors there lies a perverse form of pleasure, a “delicious guilt, delicious shame, delicious melancholy, delicious horror [and] delicious sadness” (Dark Ecology 129). This bitter form of “pleasure” aptly describes an ecocritical encounter with ecological monstrosity: the pleasure of battling and defeating virtual monsters, complemented by desolate (and possibly motivating) reflections of the ongoing ruination of our planet provided through the development of ecological thought on the part of players. References Abraham, Benjamin. “Video Game Visions of Climate Futures: ARMA 3 and Implications for Games and Persuasion.” Games and Culture 13.1 (2018): 71–91. Abraham, Benjamin. “What Is an Ecological Game? 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