Interplace

Brad Weed
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Interplace explores the interaction of people and place. It looks at how we move within and between the places we live and what led us here in the first place. interplace.io

  1. 2 days ago

    Where ‘The Cloud’ Touches the Ground

    Hello Interactors, I can’t, with certainty, explain my lapse in Interplace posts. I blame the shear bewilderment, ambiguity, angst, and collective anguish, anger, and exhaustion of all that surrounds the increasing intricacies intwining the interaction of people and place. Let’s just say centering my convictions has become as challenging as centering any creative energy on attempts to conjure any clarity to this complexity. It seems I’m not alone. As Japan-based political scientist Christopher Hobson recently concluded at Imperfect Notes, “Acceleration accelerates, disorientation deepens.” This on the heels of a Jean Baudrillard quote from 1995 that further complicates the articulation of the current moment because “the interpretation of things” is “always beyond” the event. THE SURREAL SPEED OF SOFTWARE AND SILICON It’s hard not to read Baudrillard’s writings on the simulated reality of the 80s and 90s these days and not feel like he had somehow time-traveled to make such poignant prognostications about today. As a social theorist, he was adept and omniscient at observing how media and technology can reshape not only daily life but the very language through which we perceive and interpret change. It today’s even higher-paced and surreal world it can be hard to recall just how disorienting the acceleration of personal computers and the internet was in the 80s and 90s. It may be even harder for those of us who were sitting in the driver’s seat. After all, speeding along on a bike, or inside a car, train, or rocket yields a very different experience than standing outside and watching it zoom past. The same could be said for the fear of computer viruses in the early 2000s that had ‘spontaneously broken free’ of their captive computers to wreak havoc on society. It seems human created ‘rogue’ AI demons and computer viruses have something in common with all technological innovation or failure: human intent, good and bad, is found at the source of their trajectories. Ask any judge and jury…humans are where ultimate accountability rests. Human backed technology acceleration has undoubtedly brought unparalleled and miraculous good to the world. It’s also created a world that can be summed up with ‘hockey sticks’ and ‘k-shapes’. The “hockey sticks” of the Great Acceleration come from the steep rise since around 1950 in economic activity, resource use, and environmental pressures charted by Steffen and colleagues. The “K-shapes” describe diverging fortunes, as some people and places prosper while others fall behind. After all, accelerating change does not mean everyone around the world shares in the progress. And this brings us back to economic geography. Here too, it turns out there is disorientation. When I had the privilege of presenting a paper last year at the Digital Geographies conference in Lisbon (almost exactly a year ago), I had the pleasure of meeting two researchers who interrogate this period of disorientation for a living, Yuko Aoyama and Matthew Zook. They were both also gracious enough to accept my paper to their session! Yuko had recently led editing a 2025 book called Economic Geography for the 21st Century. Matt and a colleague provided a chapter on Global Digital Networks by comparing them to global production networks and global financial networks. This book offers the latest in economic geography research on topics that matter most in this modern world of ‘hockey sticks’ and ‘k-shaped economies’. It looks at these four elements of economic geography: * the changing nature of capitalism, * the future of globalization, * the transition to a greener economy, and * the influence of technology. Given technology is at the forefront of what is shaping much of the world’s economy, where, exactly, do digital economies fit into economic geography? AI, cryptocurrency, cloud computing, digital payments, and algorithmic-everything have all emerged from the 90s Baudrillard was reacting to. These economies manifest and perpetuate on even more screens than the 90s. And they do so without any clear origin, location, or, increasingly, human involvement. Economic geography brings this all back to earth. Instead of focusing on the apparent weightless digital vapor of these systems, why not look for the underlying infrastructures, workers, resources, institutions, and unequal power dynamics that enable them to function? This doesn’t mean that the familiar geographies of mines, factories, ports, warehouses, and industrial labor have vanished. Instead, they now coexist and are reshaped by global production networks, financial networks, and digital networks. The mission isn’t just about finding out that the cloud is real, but to understand how supposedly immaterial systems continue to produce very material consequences across unevenly situated places. MAKING THE CLOUD CONCRETE I remember being at Microsoft when we were trying to bring together the PC, Xbox, Phone, and this new thing called Azure. “Three screens and a cloud” became the shorthand branding strategy at a time when ‘the cloud’ was still gaining purchase as a term. It’s now become the digital economy’s most popular metaphor. “The cloud” paints a picture of a floating, untethered layer of ‘compute’ that floats above the messiness of the everyday world. We store stuff, stream it, ask questions, send money, and increasingly rely on it to help us with our daily work, travel, communication, and decisions. The cloud’s apparent weightlessness is part of its appeal. It arrives through a UI on a screen, without origin, jurisdiction, material footprint, or visible work force. But ‘the cloud’ doesn’t exist in some ethereal elsewhere. Like traditional modern Western economies, it’s distributed unevenly across real physical landscapes, cities, industrial zones, ports, power grids, watersheds, factories, and other new found and formed frontiers of extraction. Data centers alone make ‘the cloud’ less ethereal and more real. But it’s not just data centers. It’s fiber-optic cables, server racks, cooling systems, substations, semiconductor fabrication plants, mines, processing facilities, warehouses, and all the people who build, maintain, clean, secure, regulate, and supply them. A primary point of my talk in Lisbon was how the digital economy reorganizes geography in ways difficult to see from the interfaces that I helped bring to the world. Economic geography helps with this reversal of perspective. It asks what makes a service possible in the first place. It interrogates where computations are performed, who owns the infrastructure, what energy sustains it, which jurisdictions authorize and subsidize it, and which materials travel through global supply chains. These questions reveal that hardware, software, capital, labor, law, and territory are co-assembled. Technology becomes a bit more demystified when it’s reduced to a combination of factors already present in the world. Consider data centers. They show up as low, windowless industrial buildings, a bit of fencing, some parking, piles of cooling equipment, and unusually massive electrical infrastructure relative to the regions in which they’re placed. All of this, as we now see, can significantly impact regional political economies. The location depends on cheap and reliable electricity, high-capacity fiber connections, lots of water, available land, tax deals, and proxim… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

  2. 2 Aug

    Regreening Ruses and Radiant Ruin

    Hello Interactors, I’ve long been a fan of “regreening” cities, imagining replacing bits of asphalt and concrete with trees, plants, mini-parks, and green roofs to cool them down. In many cases these are indeed good interventions. But even these celebrated nature-based solutions to the “urban heat island” effect require closer inspection. It turns out any land cover change alters energy, water, and momentum exchanges between the Earth’s surface and the atmosphere. Which are the right ones and where? To understand why cookie cutter greening plans can fail and how planners and policy makers can build cities that can handle climate change, we need to understand how land and the air interact. Environments vary from place to place, and this puts limits on what we can do to land to create urban climates that are both beautiful and healthy. To get a handle on what the research says, I found a literature review from 2025 that synthesized findings from 84 peer-reviewed studies. In was published in the journal Climate Risk Management. Let’s see what they, and others, found. BEATING HEAT WITH BIOPHYSICAL FEATS What better place to start than science. Let’s just delve right into how urban green spaces affect temperature. It starts with determining the energy balance at the surface of the earth. This comes from a budget equation found in physical geography. When sunlight hits the Earth’s surface, it breaks down into three main fluxes, or ways heat moves around * Sensible heat flux: the heat that directly warms the surrounding air, which we measure as temperature. * Latent heat flux: the heat that’s used to turn water from a liquid to a gas, like when we sweat or plants release water vapor (transpiration). * Ground heat flux: the heat stored in building materials, asphalt, and soil. In conventional urban environments dominated by concrete and asphalt, latent heat flux is minimal because we’ve built cities in ways that rapidly drain water away as ‘waste’. As a result, incoming solar energy is funneled into sensible heat. This raises daytime air temperatures that gets stored as ground heat, which is slowly radiated back into the city at night. Urban greening can reshuffle this thermodynamic budget through three interconnected physical mechanisms: shading, evapotranspiration, and albedo modification. Mechanism 1. Shading: Intercepting Solar Radiation Shading — the most immediate and reliable cooling mechanism provided by vegetation — requires precise microclimatic quantification. Vegetative canopies act as physical shields, intercepting incoming shortwave solar radiation before it strikes impervious surfaces like concrete or asphalt. By preventing these dense materials from absorbing heat and emitting sensible heat flux back into the boundary layer, shading dramatically lowers surface temperatures and reduces the baseline thermal energy transferred to the surrounding air. (Bowler, D. E., et al. 2010) The cooling benefit of urban trees is non-linear, accelerating significantly once neighborhood canopy cover crosses a critical threshold of around 40%. Measuring daytime air temperatures across urban gradients, they found that canopy cover above this 40% mark can lower local air temperatures by up to 1.5 to 2.0 degrees Celsius, effectively offsetting the thermal burden created by surrounding roads and impervious surfaces. (Ziter, C. D., et al. 2019) Mechanism 2. Evapotranspiration: Trading Sensible Heat for Latent Heat While shading blocks heat absorption, evapotranspiration actively removes heat from the air. Plants absorb soil moisture through their root systems and release it as water vapor through tiny microscopic pores in their leaves called stomata. This process requires thermal energy that turns phase-changing liquid water into gas. This energy transfer absorbs sensible heat and converts it into latent heat. Evapotranspiration from well-watered urban green spaces can lower local air temperatures by 2-4 degrees celsius. (Coutts, et al., 2013) However, physical geographers emphasize a crucial physical prerequisite that is easy to overlook: evapotranspiration is entirely dependent on available water. When the soil is dry or the air is super dry, plants close their stomata to save water. When stomata close, evapotranspiration shuts down. This leaves shading as the sole remaining cooling mechanism. Mechanism 3. Albedo Dynamics: The Surface Reflectivity Paradox Albedo measures the reflectivity of a surface on a scale from 0.0 (total absorption) to 1.0 (total reflection). Urban asphalt has a low albedo (0.05 to 0.10), absorbing up to 95% of incoming solar energy. Vegetation’s albedo can range from 0.11 to 0.25. In temperate climates, replacing low-albedo asphalt with greenery or reflective surfaces increases surface reflectivity, sending more solar radiation back into space before it can be absorbed as sensible heat. One study documented that increasing urban surface albedo typically lowers peak ambient air temperatures by 0.3 degres Celsius to 1.0 degree Celsius — alongside much larger drops in surface pavement temperatures. While a temperature change under one degree Celsius may sound modest at first glance, a baseline shift of this magnitude across a neighborhood is enough to redefine a local microclimate. (Santamouris, 2014) But swapping out light urban surfaces for dark vegetation can also have a negative effect. Paradoxically, when researchers in 2023 replaced dry, light-colored desert soil with darker vegetation in hot, arid regions it reduced overall surface reflectivity. The drop in albedo caused an increase in daytime surface warming. (Schlaerth, et al., 2023) Furthermore, dense tree canopies inside narrow urban street canyons can act as thermal blankets at night. While trees provide valuable shade during the day, their foliage reduces the sky view factor at street level, trapping outgoing longwave thermal radiation emitted by surrounding building facades and asphalt. When combined with reduced wind permeability, this canopy barrier restricts nocturnal radiative cooling and holds warm air near ground level (Lee et al., 2016). These are the physical realities that can demonstrate how urban greening is not a consistently inherent cooling practice. It is a complex thermodynamic intervention whose success relies entirely on local environmental conditions. PLACEMENT, PATCHES, AND PARK PATTERNS Because thermodynamic processes happen across physical spaces, cooling urban green space can be uneven. The literature review reveals that a green space’s cooling capacity depends on four spatial and biological variables: vegetation density, species selection, spatial configuration, and urban morphology. Let’s break them down individually. Cooling Factor 1. Vegetation Density and Species Traits Not all greenery cools equally. One way to measure this is through a Leaf Area Index (LAI). This is the total leaf area per unit of ground area and is a primary predictor of thermal performance. As you might imagine, dense foliage absorbs more from the sun and then produces higher cumulative transpiration (so long as there’s adequate water). Botanical traits also play a big role. Broadleaf deciduous species (like oaks or maples) feature large surface areas that maximize summer transpiration, but that goes away when they drop their leaves in winter. Evergreen coniferous trees, however, maintain continuous canopy coverage through every season. In temperate rainforest environments like Seattle or Vancouver, researchers found that conifers cooled urban surroundings up to 1.7 degrees celsius more effectively than broadleaf trees. Dense needle canopies continuously block incoming solar radiation due to higher LAI and the fact that clusters of spiny needles better trap a stable buffer of calm air which moderates heat exchange with the surrounding urban environment. (Eyster & Beckage, 2022, 2023) Cooling factor 2. Spatial Configuration: Landscape Ecology Principles Ecologists and geographers commonly evaluate green spaces thr… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

  3. 18 Jul

    Burning Both Ends

    Hello Interactors, As Canadian and Alaskan wildfire smoke drifts across North American borders, it’s easy to resort to feelings and language of crisis in the demand for urgent, immediate control. But fires are not new to these landscapes, and this “crisis” sits alongside others that are also on fire. Climate crises events bring into focus which histories we forget, whose knowledge we ignore, and which relationships we disrupt. Turns out it’s happening at a cellular level too. The real danger is a world and ecology changing so quickly, and understood so narrowly, that it erases the very temporal patterns, memories, and ecological relationships that make adaptation possible. FIRE’S FRACTURED FREQUENCY The climate crisis is often communicated through rising averages. We read of climbing global temperatures, sea levels, atmospheric carbon dioxide concentrations, and acres burned. These measurements are indispensable, but averages can make crisis feel distant and abstract. In a forest, climate change is also experienced as an altered interval — as too little time between one disturbance and the next. A forest is not a passive surface. It actively shapes its own microclimate, stores carbon, and retains moisture until fire temporarily disrupts these relationships…and in doing so creates new ones. To understand what shorter fire intervals are doing to Alaska’s boreal forests, ecologist Xanthe Walker and an interdisciplinary team of researchers examined carbon storage and forest recovery across 555 plots associated with thirty-one fires. They compared stands with different fire histories, including sites that had burned repeatedly before black spruce forests could fully recover. The absolute amount of carbon released by individual fires was broadly similar across fire-return intervals, but recently burned landscapes began with smaller remaining carbon pools and therefore lost a greater proportion of what remained. Repeated burning also consumed more legacy carbon — the carbon inherited from earlier vegetation and accumulated soils — and reduced the likelihood that some sites would regenerate as black spruce forest. Fire was doing more than releasing carbon in the present. By interrupting regeneration, it was weakening the landscape’s capacity to store carbon in the future (Walker et al., 2025). Black spruce forests are not merely tolerant of fire but have evolved with stand-replacing fire as a recurring part of their life cycle. Their cones evolved to be little seed bombs that stay in the trees and release their seeds when they burn. This helps new trees grow on the ground where they’re not protected by the canopy. That strategy works when fires recur at intervals long enough for stands to mature, rebuild their seed stocks, and accumulate biomass. Historically, boreal fire-return intervals commonly ranged from about seventy to 130 years. Black spruce may require roughly fifty years to produce enough seed for self-replacement. Yet intervals of less than thirty years are becoming more common in some areas, allowing another fire to arrive before recovery is complete (Walker et al., 2025). Under those conditions, fire can push regeneration away from black spruce toward deciduous vegetation or more open landscapes. Such places may remain biologically productive, but they are no longer the same forests. They store carbon, retain moisture, shelter organisms, but also carry subsequent fires differently. The landscape may not simply return to its former state after disturbance; it may cross into another ecological regime, organized by different species, intervals, and feedback loops. MEMORY, MEANING, AND MALLEABILITY It is tempting to call such transformations unprecedented. In some measurable respects, they are. We know Industrial greenhouse-gas emissions are rapidly altering atmospheric and ecological systems on a planetary scale, and the effects are not confined to normal oscillations around once-familiar conditions. The rate, direction, and geographic concentration of change effects forests adapted to fire and may be unable to adjust when fire’s frequency exceeds the time needed for reproduction and recovery. The fact that Earth has always changed does not make the present disruption ordinary. But neither does the climate crisis mark the first time people have faced the collapse of an expected environmental order. Many humans didn’t survive the Little Ice Age, but many did. For many Indigenous peoples, colonization produced generations of forced displacement, altered fire and water regimes, destroyed food systems, suppressed governance, and separated communities from ancestral lands. What dominant institutions now describe as an unprecedented disruption may appear within Indigenous histories as another transformation imposed by powers that have long treated land, water, plants, animals, and people as resources to be reorganized. The word crisis can therefore describe an observable material condition while concealing a historical one. The flames are real, but so are the questions of who altered the landscape, whose losses are treated as new, who is expected to adapt, and who gets to define recovery. Potawatomi scholar Kyle Whyte challenges this framing, arguing that a dominant “epistemology of crisis” treats environmental disruptions as radically new, imminent threats (Whyte, 2021). This framing isolates the crisis from historical contexts of colonialism, allowing institutions to justify urgent, top-down actions that bypass local consent and justice under the guise of emergency. That framing carries two recurring assumptions. The first is unprecedentedness — the belief that the past contains few usable precedents or lessons for present conditions. The second is urgency — the belief that immediate action may justify setting aside ordinary concerns about consent, justice, and responsibility. Whyte’s intervention exposes how crisis language can obscure Indigenous histories of displacement and adaptation while allowing new forms of dispossession to proceed in the name of emergency responses (Whyte, 2021). Whyte is not arguing that climate change is unreal or that rapid action is unnecessary. He is asking what calls for urgency and emergency action leads people to overlook or forget. When the present is imagined as unprecedented, earlier crises become difficult to see. Climate-related relocation may be narrated as a novel problem even though Indigenous nations have extensive experience with forced removal, shrinking territories, flooding, and government-directed resettlement. Declaring the current moment historically unique can erase not only previous violence but also knowledge formed through surviving it. Whyte contrasts cri… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

  4. 3 Jul

    Burning Through 250 Years

    Hello Interactors, Welcome to summer where Interplace turns its attention to physical geography and the environment. It’s already a crazy El Niño — thanks in large part to global warming — and the United States is having a big birthday. How might these be related and what to do about it? What follows is not a celebration or a condemnation, but more of a reckoning. I look at what was built, what was deliberately forgotten, and what is now continually arriving, season by season, in forms of weather the founders could not have imagined. Although Alexander Humboldt — one of the world’s most famous scientists at the time — did warn Jefferson of the effects of human-induced climate change in 1804. He based his prediction on changes he observed in forests and water systems as a result of mono-crops and industrial “steam and gas”. Jefferson ignored him. BUILDING, BURNING, BILLOWING BACK On this momentous 250th Fourth of July, when the world is experiencing record level extreme weather events, let’s reflect on how over the last 250 years the United States helped build, extract, and then burn the material and political conditions that made climate change possible. From the beginning, it tied itself to land, extraction, mobility, and expansion. Over time those commitments became an energy system built on coal, oil, gas, highways, suburbs, industrial agriculture, and a development model that treated nature as an inexhaustible storehouse. That legacy is now legible in the atmosphere itself. Let’s light a Roman Candle in celebration! Even before the 4th of July fireworks celebrations create another nationwide 42% average increase in fine particulate matter (Seidel, et al., 2015), the United States bears the single largest share of cumulative historical CO₂ emissions of any nation . We represent roughly 20 percent of the global total since 1850 contributing approximately 0.2°C of warming to date (Carbon Brief, 2021; UNEP, 2023). To represent four percent of the world’s current population and be responsible for nearly a fifth of its cumulative warming is not a coincidence of geography or fake news. It is the outcome of deliberate choices about how a republic would be organized, energized, and expanded across two and a half centuries. The United States has long imagined freedom in spatial terms: movement, property, settlement, mastery, frontier, and circulation. Those abstract ideals were made real through land theft and remade landscapes, as well as through infrastructure built in significant part by African and African American enslaved labor. Each step along the way depended on ever-greater throughput of energy, labor, and material. In that sense, the country’s history is also a history of how thought became organized around extraction and exploitation, until those thoughts and actions themselves became a kind of common sense. But by the late nineteenth century and early twentieth centuries increased industrialization meant emissions grew. They surged during the postwar era and peaked in the early 2000s — a trajectory that maps almost exactly onto the spatial project of suburban expansion, highway construction, and fossil-fuel-dependent agriculture (Climate Change Tracker, 2024). Two-thirds of the country’s cumulative warming impact derives from fossil CO₂ alone. The built environment of American freedom is as inseparable from the chemical footprint it left behind as a firecracker’s scattered debris and carbon residue. This leaves us with a climate crisis that is not just the result of a few bad policy choices in the late twentieth century. We exist in a cumulative outcome of a long national project that normalized combustion as prosperity and treated atmospheric consequence as some distant abstraction. Kind of like turning up the radio to drowned out the sound of your car making a funny noise. The federal state government played a central role in this process. Not only through direct policy and subsidies, but through the development of roads, ports, power systems, agricultural regimes, and military logistics that expanded the scale of fossil dependence at every scale of national life. The fossil fuel industry understood this trajectory earlier than the public was permitted to know. A systematic analysis published in Science found that ExxonMobil’s own scientists accurately projected and skillfully modeled global warming due to fossil fuel burning from as early as 1977. These projections are consistent with subsequent observations. And yet, for decades, the company publicly pushed doubt and denial (Supran, Rahmstorf, & Oreskes, 2023). Consequently, what America projects as “economic growth”, fueled enormously by the fossil fuel industry, is embedded not only in a collective national memory but in the scientific record. The irony is that America’s confidence in its own permanence rested on a false sense of geography. The landscape seemed stable because the costs were displaced in the form of upstream mining, downstream pollution, hidden emissions, imported and exported harm, and deferred climate effects. The effects on the atmosphere made that displacement impossible to sustain. The ‘progress’ that had been scattered across space and time returns as heat, drought, fire, flood, and increasingly volatile weather. We built a world in which the rewards of extraction were immediate while the penalties were delayed. Call it what you will — the climate crisis is just the debt of delay, dressed as disaster. KNOWING, NEGLECTING, NEUTERING KNOWLEDGE The USA did not simply keep burning and expanding on autopilot. By the late twentieth century, it had also begun to lose the institutional capacity to understand what its own trajectory meant. The problem was no longer that the 1970’s scientific picture Exxon had already portrayed was absent. The evidence was clear. By the early 1990s the United States had ratified the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) and formally accepted the goal of returning greenhouse-gas emissions to 1990 levels by the end of the decade. The barrier to progress was not ignorance, but a degraded relationship between knowledge and power. This was engineered in part by more fossil fuel industry campaigns to sow doubt about science it privately accepted. Historians of science Naomi Oreskes and Erik Conway documented how a loose-knit network of industry-connected scientists ran effective campaigns to mislead the public on issues from tobacco to climate change. They exploited the media’s tendency toward false balance and keeping controversy alive long after scientific consensus had been reached (Oreskes & Conway, 2010). The strategy was to make certainty seem uncertain, and it worked. For decades, political inaction persisted through every window of action that may have helped. By the mid-1990s, climate change had become legible enough for federal institutions to name, study, and plan around, but the machinery of governance was being bent in the opposite direction. Newt Gingrich and the Republicans who rose with him may not have invented anti-government politics, but they weaponized it. Curiously, through pro-governmental politics. While their rhetoric promised efficiency and modernization, in practice it often meant cutting staffs, weakening committees, abolishing subcommittees, and treating the legislature less as a site of deliberation than as a theater of permanent combat. After all, their own staffers affectionately referred to Gingrich and his wrecking crew as ‘jihadists’ — even as those same politicians promulgated and attached that term as a slur toward Muslims. One of the most consequential acts of this period was the 1995 defunding of the Office of Technology Assessment. This was a bipartisan, independent body that had produced over 750 reports on complex… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

  5. 19 Jun

    Living Through Tulsa's Time

    Hello Interactors, A couple weeks ago, I found myself in Tulsa for the first time. I left pleasantly surprised. There’s a lot of private money flowing into this town, but the city is filled with sorted stories about land, who holds it, who loses it, and how that loss and potential return is engineered. On Juneteenth, the city’s history feels especially close so I thought I’d unpack the layers of displacement, violence, and reinvention that lurk beneath a city still struggling to face them. CONCRETE, COALS, AND A CITY THAT CONCEALS Raise your hand if you like Brutalist architecture (I’m raising mine.) I just didn’t expect to find it in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I was visiting for my niece’s wedding. The Brut Hotel is a converted Brutalist tower a few blocks from the Arkansas River and it’s all raw concrete. Even the floors and counters. Most people see Brutalism as cold — which is nice on a hot Tulsa day — but I read it as honest and direct. A bit like a Midwestern prairie settler stereotype. After all, the style did emerge in postwar Europe from an egalitarian impulse. It was meant to be democratic architecture stripped of ornamental excesses of fancy city folks. It arrived in America just in time to become the aesthetic of urban renewal. We mostly got housing projects and highway interchanges built on top of what had been Black and working-class neighborhoods, often by eminent domain and without meaningful consent. Concrete can be made to beautiful, but it’s definitely also the material of displacement. Tulsa is no exception. On my first muggy Tulsa morning, I ran from The Brut toward the river. A block or two along, tucked between midtown houses on Cheyenne Avenue, I passed a small park I had read about but didn’t know was so close. The bronze sculpture of a flame was the give away. This is Creek Nation Council Oak Park, and it is, in the most literal sense, where Tulsa began. In 1836, the Lochapoka clan of the Creek Nation arrived at this hill above the river after two years on the Trail of Tears. They had carried live coals from their last ceremonial fires in Alabama the entire way — embers kept alive through hundreds of miles of forced march. Under this oak, they set those coals down and kindled a new flame. They named the settlement Talasi, meaning “old town.” White settlers mispronounced it into Tulsa. The term “Trail of Tears” perhaps softens this forced displacement too much. Of the 630 Lochapoka who began the journey, 161 did not survive it. The oak did and it still holds its annual ceremonies. In November 2024, the site was formally returned to the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. As I kept running south along the river, a second gathering place was harder to miss. It has a giant sign that reads, The Gathering Place. The Gathering Place is a privately built public-ish park that stretches along the Arkansas River’s eastern bank and inland a bit. It’s one hundred acres of fountains, climbing structures, event lawns, and restored prairie plantings. It is, by nearly any measure, a stunningly beautiful park. It is also unmistakably the product of a single man’s fortune. George Kaiser, the Tulsa-born oil billionaire and philanthropist, has poured more than $350 million into transforming this stretch of riverfront. It’s honestly something you’d expect to see in a Northern European city. The park opened in 2018 to national acclaim. The New York Times called it “the most ambitious new park in a generation.” I can see why. But head north from the riverfront, past the gleaming BOK Center arena (“B. OK.” is a financial services company dating back to 1910 oil money and is half owned by Kaiser) and the reclaimed warehouse districts, (including the Bob Dylan Center — Kaiser bought Bob Dylan’s archive collection in 2016) and within minutes you are in a different city. North Tulsa — and specifically the Greenwood District — reveals modest homes and stretches of underdevelopment. This is an area that feels like it’s being watched and commemorated but it’s not entirely clear it is being heard. The Greenwood Rising history center, also primarily bankrolled by Kaiser, opened in 2021 exactly one hundred years after the neighborhood was destroyed in the Tulsa Massacre. This building is also very nice and tells the area’s story well. Whether it changes the story is another matter. Cities can act as maps of their own history, so that’s how I try to read them. I take note of the distances between prosperity and poverty, commemoration and investment…even a museum and a neighborhood. These are not determinant accidents of the market, but accumulated residue of specific decisions made by specific people over a very long time. To understand Tulsa’s geography today, you have to go back not just to 1921, but further — to the rivers and grasslands of Indian Territory the Lochapoka people encountered. It’s here you’ll find federal ledgers leveraged as weapons, their lines and lists legalizing the largest land liquidation in American history. PROMISES, PARCELS, AND THE POLITICS OF POSSESSION The Lochapoka were not the only ones force-marched into Indian Territory. All five of the so-called Civilized Tribes — the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole nations — were relocated from their homelands in the American Southeast across the 1830s. Each tribe were given the same federal promise that the territory would remain theirs permanently. The maps and the Federal treaties said so, but neither turned out to mean much. What the maps did not show, and what the official history long preferred to omit, is that the Five Tribes brought enslaved Black people with them into Indian Territory. As the historians Annette Gordon-Reed and Rose Stremlau have noted in the context of the 1619 Project, the story of this dispossession cannot be told without acknowledging that intersection: the Trail of Tears was also, for some, a forced march into continued bondage (Gordon-Reed et al., 2022). That fact would shape the politics of Oklahoma for generations — and it is the thread that connects the founding fire under the Council Oak to the rise of Greenwood eighty years later. After the Civil War, the federal government’s promises to the Five Tribes began to erode almost immediately. The Freedmen — formerly enslaved people who had been held by tribal members — were formally granted citizenship in the tribes by treaty, though the tribes’ willingness to honor that citizenship varied considerably. Many Freedmen, seeking mutual protection and economic self-sufficiency, began establishing their own communities. This impulse gave rise to what became known as the Black Towns Movement. Between the 1870s and the 1920s, more than fifty all-Black towns were founded in Oklahoma and Kansas, created by people who had learned, with good reason, not to rely on the goodwill of white-majority governments (Martin, 2025; Gordon-Reed et al., 2022). The legal and cartographic instrument that made the Black Towns possible — and that w… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

  6. 1 Jun

    The Transit of Two Titans

    Hello Interactors, We like to think we choose our own paths, but our cities have already decided for us. New York and Los Angeles function as the extended phenotype of our species — a living circulatory system that subtly channels our collective behavior. This week, we explore the multi-generational biology of transit to see how modern infrastructure effectively dissolves what we perceive as individual autonomy. MANHATTAN MOBILITY AND THE MASSED MILIEU I recently flew from New York visiting my daughter, where large vessels moved massive numbers of people around, to Los Angeles visiting my son, where small vessels moved small numbers of people around. The transition was jarring. I went from being physically enmeshed in a dense social milieu to being systematically protected from it — from walking over 10,000 steps a day to barely 1,000. My daily cadence shifted from bobbing and weaving around persons I could see, hear, and smell, to maneuvering around what sociologist Mike Michael termed ‘carsons’ — persons fused with a car. This deep-seated desire for individual control over our own mobility is not unique to the modern driver. The instinct to leverage an external entity to conquer long distances is as old as the domestication of the horse in the third millennium BCE. Every stage of human life presents a shifting horizon of mobile autonomy: from crawling to walking, to the childhood triumph of mastering a bicycle or a local bus network, to the initial rush of freedom that comes with a first car. All before the natural declines of aging ultimately diminish our autonomy once more. Yet, suggesting mass transit to many Americans accustomed to the perceived agency of the car feels like a threat to their very freedom. Because transit routes are fixed and schedules are unyielding, collective travel is often mischaracterized as an artificial restriction on liberty. History shows that long before the locomotive, scheduled, multi-passenger transit enabled human freedom and societal cohesion where individual movement was risky or impossible. Across Eastern Polynesia, the Caribbean, and northern Eurasia, multi-passenger canoes were the lifeblood of trade and travel. In southern California, the Chumash and Tongva communities developed advanced sewn-plank canoes called tomols and ti’ats, which facilitated complex political economies between the Channel Islands and the mainland. This reliance on collective vehicles extended beyond coastal waterways. Human networks also depended on highly organized, shared transport to conquer distance across vast terrestrial and inland landscapes. Centuries before Western cities built public transit, imperial China constructed the Grand Canal, a two-thousand-kilometer artificial waterway that operated as a continental transit artery during the Sui Dynasty. This facilitated the regular movement of millions of passengers and state resources between agricultural basins and northern metropolises. On land, Tokugawa-era Japan structured its empire around the Tōkaidō, a highly regulated highway system where travelers moved rhythmically between post stations using a coordinated network of horse relays and official permits. Eastern aquatic and terrestrial networks achieved continental scale, replicated on Europe’s rugged overland trails. Public multi-passenger carriage service began in Paris in 1662 with the world's first urban transit system. In colonial America, occasional stagecoaches linked Boston and New York starting around 1735, with regular schedules emerging in the 1740s. By the late 1820s, fixed-route horse-buses (omnibuses) appeared in Paris (1828) and New York City (1827). When urban populations exploded in mid 1800s, these street-level collective networks buckled under their own weight. It triggered unprecedented structural crises. By the late 19th century, New York City was drowning in a public health emergency born of its own transit power. Imagine over 150,000 working horses blanketing the streets. Now imagine thousands of tons of manure and urine daily. When a horse influenza epidemic paralyzed the city overnight in 1872, New Yorkers realized they could no longer rely on street-level animal power. The city initially looked upward and built coal-fired elevated railroads — the “Els” — on massive iron trestles. While these steam engines bypassed street traffic and allowed Manhattan to expand northward, they rained hot ash onto pedestrians, blocked natural light, and shattered the urban peace with deafening noise. True structural relief required going underground. Early pneumatic experiments, like Alfred Ely Beach's secret, air-driven tunnel in 1870, remained short-lived novelties due to political opposition and mechanical limitations (only 300 feet long, single-car shuttle). The project closed in 1873. The breakthrough for electric rail came in 1890 with the City & South London Railway in London, the first railway to use third rail electrification. The third rail — an additional, continuous steel rail running alongside the tracks that carries electricity to train cars — became the standard for underground and metro systems from around 1900. October 27, 1904, the Interborough Rapid Transit Company opened its first official subway line from City Hall to Harlem. This permanently compressed densely housed humanity into a swift, subterranean network, channeling the city’s chaos beneath the cobblestones. COASTAL CARRIAGES AND THE CYCLEWAY While New York dug into the earth to consolidate its density, a parallel but radically different evolution was unfolding across the wide horizon of the Los Angeles basin. Between the 1820s and 1904, Los Angeles transformed from an isolated Mexican pueblo (population ~650) into a sprawling metropolis (population 100,000+). Here surface transit was not just responding to growth, but was actively engineering it. After bridging the distance to its seaport via the San Pedro Railroad in 1869 and connecting to the transcontinental rail network via Southern Pacific in 1876, the city experienced the Southern California real estate boom of the 1880s (1884-1887), which required vast spatial integration. The 1885 completion of the Santa Fe Railroad's direct line to Chicago triggered a development boom that dwarfed the earlier one, transforming the region. Rather than stacking millions of people into a vertical core, transit magnates like Moses Sherman and Henry Huntington realized that electric surface rail could be weaponized as a tool for land speculation. They built lines out into empty fields, bought up the surrounding acreage, and subdivided it into suburban tracts for commuting workers. A similar strategy played out in Chicago. Founded in 1901, Huntington's Pacific Electric 'Red Cars' rapidly expanded, opening its first interurban line to Long Beach on July 4, 1902. At its peak in the 1920s, the Pacific Electric system became the largest electric railway system in the world, with over 1,000 miles of track connecting dozens of isolated towns across Los Angeles, Orange, Riverside, and San Bernardino Counties, stitching together hundreds of square miles. By scattering its population across a massive geographic basin, this surface network wrote the genetic code for LA’s modern identity. This decentralized layout was perfectly primed to swap the shared space of the streetcar for the individualized isolation of the highway just a generation later. Yet, beneath both the subway tunnels of Manhattan and the streetcar tracks of Los Angeles lies a forgotten foundation engineered by an entirely different mode of transit. As Carlton Reid uncovers in Roads Were Not Built for Cars, our modern road networks were not designed for the automobile but were hard-won by late… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

  7. 11 May

    Becoming Not Beginning

    Hello Interactors, Neuroscience research on narrative shows that stories sharpen attention, improve recall, and recruit shared brain networks that help us organize events into a coherent arc. The trouble, for anyone who works with spatial data, is that the reality on the ground refuses to cooperate with clean narratives despite this inherent bias. Today I look at how the popular telling of how Homo sapiens came to contemplate such things — to become ‘modern’ — is not the story the evidence keeps telling. THE LURE OF THE LEAP We like our origin stories well defined. The popular telling — the Israeli historian Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens is the bestselling version — locates a moment when archaic humans crossed a threshold and became modern, transformed by some neurological windfall in Africa. But a recent paper by anthropologist Huw Groucutt on Homo sapiens dispersal argues this says more about Homo sapiens’ neurological bias toward clean narratives than about the evidence we have. This ‘revolution into modern’ frame has traceable historical roots. In the 1960s and 70s, the only deeply excavated record was in a western sliver of the Eurasian landmass called Europe. There, the transition from Neanderthal to Homo sapiens congregations did look abrupt. It was reasonable, given what was known at the time, to read this regional shift as a species-wide threshold — a sudden flowering of cognition and culture. But that reading was a misinterpretation. What Europe records is not a transformation but a replacement where one population arrived as another receded. The arc of change was migration, not metamorphosis. That correction took hold, but the ‘revolution’ story, like the species, simply relocated. There would be a coastal revolution in southern Africa, a cognitive revolution in the Rift Valley, a technological revolution in the Levant. The plot survived even as the setting changed. The deeper trouble lies with the word “modern” itself. It is a relic of mid-twentieth-century thinking that anchors humanity to an imagined ethnographic checklist: symbolic art, refined toolkits, complex burials, linguistic competence. These traits are taken to constitute a package, and the package is taken to arrive together. But the evidence keeps refusing this neatness. The traits show up in pulses across regions and disappear again. They appear in populations we have been trained to call “archaic.” They fail to coordinate the way the model demands, and as Groucutt says, provide just “another way of separating ‘us’ and ‘them’.” For example at Panga ya Saidi in coastal Kenya, excavators recovered the burial of a child known as Mtoto dated to around 78,000 years ago. It is among the oldest deliberate burials known from Africa, and the kind of behavior usually slotted under “modernity.” Yet there is no continent-wide adoption of similar mortuary practice that follows from it. Burial complexity at Panga ya Saidi appears, then thins, then reappears elsewhere on different terms. It looks less like the leading edge of a wave and more like a local response to local conditions. A second example pulls in the opposite direction. The Iho Eleru skull, recovered in 1965 from a rock shelter in Nigeria, is roughly 13,000 years old — geologically yesterday — yet preserves features that morphologists have long called “archaic.” It refuses to sit in the bin its date implies. The bone is doing something the category cannot absorb. The cost of the revolution model, then, is not that it tells a tidy story. It is that the tidiness encourages researchers to treat their categories as facts of nature rather than instruments of description. Evidence that does not fit the frame gets explained away or quietly set aside. When you stop asking when our ancestors became human and start asking how, across thousands of generations and a shifting climate, particular behaviors were assembled and reassembled in particular places, the data reads very differently. This point is not new. In 2000, Sally McBrearty and Alison Brooks published a paper titled “The revolution that wasn’t,” arguing that the complex behaviors taken to define modernity in Europe had appeared in Africa tens of thousands of years earlier, and gradually rather than in a single burst. That correction is over twenty-five years old. The fact that revolution thinking has persisted despite it — and persisted most loudly in popular accounts that sell in the tens of millions — is itself worth taking seriously. Models, like fossils, accumulate where the conditions are right for preservation. The trait-list at the heart of “modernity” is a fragile instrument in its own right. Many of the behaviors taken to mark our species are anchored to ethnographic data on recent hunter-gatherer societies, assumed to provide a baseline for what fully human cultural life looks like. Those datasets have well-known problems; when the archaeologist Robert Kelly examined a portion of Lewis Binford’s widely used hunter-gatherer compilation in 2021, he was able to confirm the accuracy of only one percent of the entries. The benchmark we have been measuring the deep past against is, in places, made of sand. PATHS, NOT PIVOTS For anyone who works with spatial data, the revolution model has a second problem. It ignores the terrain. A revolution, mapped, would look like an expanding circle radiating from a source — like a wildfire expanding from a single ignition point. Human dispersal looks nothing like that. It moves along corridors, hesitates at barriers, doubles back, fragments around resources. It is shaped by climate cycles that open and close routes on millennial timescales. The footprint is irregular because the ground is irregular. Groucutt’s argument benefits from a concept that geographers and geomorphologists know well: equifinality. The same observed outcome can result from different processes. A bowl-shaped depression on a hillside can be carved by a glacier, scooped by a landslide, or eroded by a spring undercutting from below. The shape alone does not tell you which. Read the depression as a single signature of a single cause, and you will misjudge its history. The same caution applies to the deep human past. A scatter of similar tool types across regions does not necessarily document a single dispersing population with a shared cognitive package. It may document several populations independently arriving at similar solutions to similar pressures. A flicker of symbolic behavior in two distant places does not imply continuous transmission between them. The archaeological record is dense with cases where the simplest explanation — one cause, one origin — turns out to be the wrong one. A telling example of how revolution thinking distorts spatial evidence comes from a long-running argument about the Levantine sites occupied by Homo sapiens between roughly 130,000 and 75,000 years ago — Skhul, Qafzeh, and others. Did these represent a genuine out-of-Africa dispersal, or were they merely an extension of African ecology into Southwest Asia? In the latter view, our species was so tightly coupled to its native biome that early presence beyond Africa was a kind of optical illusion. One prominent researcher has argued that Israel is outside Africa “only by modern political convention.” But the Levantine mammal fauna of this period is dominated by Palearctic species — deer, gazelle, boar — and has been since at least the Middle Pleistocene. The supposed Afri… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

  8. 27 Apr

    What the World Points To

    Hello Interactors, It’s been a while. Traveling for family, and a bit flooded by the relentless sneaker waves of unsavory world events — the kind that usually inspire me to write but lately threaten to pull me under. Spring in the northern hemisphere means Interplace turns to geographic information science and spatial analysis. How might we look at the complex unfolding of world events through this lens — and what happens when we push it further than emergence alone can carry it? That’s what I attempt to explore here. PATTERNS PRECEDING PHYSICAL PLACES Geographic information science is a relatively recent field. It emerged from mid-20th-century cartography and land-use planning. Computer cartography and quantitative geography of the 1960s is often considered the first true digital Geographic Information Systems (GIS). It became a science (GIScience or GISc) in the late 1980s and early 1990s when Michael Goodchild questioned if there was a genuine scientific discipline lurking within the software. His answer was yes. He built an institutional home for that argument at the National Center for Geographic Information and Analysis at the University of California, Santa Barbara, my alma mater. Goodchild was my senior advisor in 1989 as UCSB was becoming a generative intellectual hub in the field. UCSB’s geography department continues to push the question of what space means analytically, not just how to map it. I’m personally invested in better understanding how GISc may be a natural partner for complexity science, a field I’ve been attracted to since I started researching and writing. This partnership isn’t new. GISc provides a powerful framework for dissecting the spatial dimensions of complexity, where systems defy reductionist analysis and emerge through nonlinear interactions. In the early 2000s, geographer David O’Sullivan, and others, articulated this as the study of “the behaviour of macroscopic collections of many basic but interacting units endowed with the potential to evolve in time” emphasizing these characteristic elements of complexity science: self-organization, path dependence, and the irreducibility of wholes to their parts. Around the same time, sociologist John Urry (and others) extended this to global scales, portraying globalization as co-evolving systems marked by unpredictability, irreversibility, and positive feedback loops that amplify disorder within pockets of order. These parings are a good start, but computational biologist Michael Levin offers what can be seen as a genuinely unsettling upgrade. His recent work on the origin of cognitive and morphological patterns suggests the dominant appeal to emergence as an explanatory endpoint may itself be, in his words, a “mysterian” position — one that “does not facilitate further advances.” When a surprising pattern appears in a complex system, the emergentist says “that’s just what happens” and catalogs it. But Levin proposes these patterns are not random facts to be noted and admired. They are part of an ordered, non-physical space that physical systems, when configured the right way, ingress into. Ingression is a term Levin borrows from mathematician Alfred North Whitehead as a potential that timeless abstract objects possess to become actual concrete experiences. “Red” only becomes red when its potential is realized. These ‘ordered spaces’ of potential are portals into what Levin calls a Platonic Space. Plato argued that the objects we encounter in the world are imperfect instances of perfect, eternal Forms that exist independently of any physical thing. The most primitive form being the triangle. Levin’s argument is the triangle participates in a kind of Triangleness; it realizes it’s potential to exist. Nature keeps arriving at triangles independently, across wildly different substrates, as if drawn by the same attractor. The triangle is the only polygon that is inherently rigid: push on any corner and the shape holds, which is why trusses, bridges, and bones all rely on triangular geometry for structural strength. Radiolarians, single-celled ocean organisms with no brain and no blueprint, construct intricate skeletal lattices of triangulated geometry at microscopic scales. In Levin’s terms, nature is ingressing Triangleness — repeatedly, across billions of years and countless lineages — because the Form has properties that reward any physical system stable enough to express it. The truth that a triangle’s angles sum to exactly 180 degrees owed nothing to the first organism that built one. Physical systems are, in this sense, less like containers and more like pointers — a term borrowed from computer science. Pointers are variables that hold the addresses that reference more information. Levin’s framework requires a specific kind of pointer: not a pointer to stored data, which retrieves a static value, but a pointer to a subroutine that calls up a routine that executes complex actions and outputs beyond the pointer itself. The pointer is small, while the executed routine may be vast and behave unpredictably. Think of a street address. The address itself contains nothing — it is a short string of numbers and words that fits on an envelope — but hand it to the right system and it retrieves a house, a history, a neighborhood, everything that has ever happened inside those walls. This is Levin’s claim about physical structures. A genome, a city, an institution doesn’t contain its pattern so much as it points at one — and when the pointer is well-formed, you get considerably more out than you put in. What does this mean for GISc? It means that spatial configurations — cities, borders, trade corridors, migration routes — are not merely sites where local interactions produce global outcomes. They are interfaces into a latent pattern space. When a hub city emerges, when a colonial border persists for centuries past the empire that drew it, when a pandemic spreads exactly along the topology of air travel, we are not only witnessing the consequential mechanical emergence of patterns derived from local rules. We are watching physical structures act as pointers that summon — ingress — specific patterns of collective behavior, whose full complexity exceeds what was put in. Levin’s core observation about biological morphogenesis translates here with uncomfortable precision. Consider one of his more unsettling tadpole experiments. The creation of its normal bulging eyes are suppressed (by microscopically manipulating cellular ‘software’) and a replacement eye is instead induced — ingressed — on the tail. The optic nerve growing from that tail-eye doesn’t connect to the brain — it terminates somewhere around the spinal cord. By any conventional account, the animal should be blind. It isn’t. The tadpoles can still see and perform well in visual tasks. Somehow, the system routes around its own abnormal wiring to recover function. The pattern being pointed to — sight — was never housed in the eye itself, or in the specific neural pathway, or in any single component. The eye on the tail is a wildly improbable pointer, and yet it retrieves something far richer than its own structure contains. You get considerably more out than you put in. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

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About

Interplace explores the interaction of people and place. It looks at how we move within and between the places we live and what led us here in the first place. interplace.io

Information

  • Creator
    Brad Weed
  • Years Active
    2021 - 2026
  • Episodes
    172
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Brad Weed
  • Show Website
    Interplace