Interplace

Brad Weed
  • 5.0 (2)
  • Social Sciences
  • Updated Semimonthly

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. 1d ago

    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 crisis epistemology with an “epistemology of coordination.” Coordination begins not with novelty but with constant change. It asks whether the relationships needed to respond remain intact. Those relationships take the form of kinship and mutual responsibilities, including care, consent, and reciprocity. They generate what Whyte calls the “responsible capacity to respond to constant change” (2021, p. 52). This is a big geophilosophical change in how we think about the world. Adaptation isn’t just about an organism or group of organisms changing to fit their environment, it’s also about how things are connected, like people, places, history, and processes (the primary focus of Interplace). Fire isn’t just about heat progressively burning through plants. It depends on things like how old the trees are, how much moisture there is in the soil, how many seeds are available, if there have been any fires before, what the weather is like, and the rules and laws that people have made about how to handle fire. What the forest looks like after a fire depends on which relationships are still around. The same is true of human communities. Memory is not merely a record of what happened. It is part of the infrastructure of adaptation. It carries knowledge of earlier disturbances, durable practices, failed interventions, and obligations extending beyond the present generation. A society that repeatedly labels each disruption unprecedented may collect and reason over immense quantities of data while remaining unable — or unwilling — to learn from other histories. CELLS, CUES, AND CONTINGENCY The adaptive value of memory may reach far deeper into life than culture or nervous systems. Evolutionary biologists Maor Knafo, Elena Casacuberta, and Iñaki Ruiz-Trillo begin a recent study with the observation that “one of life’s most remarkable features is its persistent and adaptive resilience in the face of constant environmental fluctuations” (2026, p. 1). They investigated whether a single-celled organism could use an environmental cue to anticipate future stress rather than responding only after that stress arrived. Cells exposed to a predictable light and vibration cue before heat stress experienced a 12 percent mortality rate, compared to a 27 percent mortality rate for cells subjected to unpredictable, random cues. The cells didn’t just adapt to the heat; they learned to anticipate it, demonstrating that even single-celled life relies on temporal regularities to survive. The authors paired this experiment with a computational model. A nonlearning “blind” agent could adapt only through genetic mutation and selection across generations. A learning agent could also revise its phenotypic strategy within its lifetime, exploring alternatives when earlier responses performed poorly. In predictable environments, learning agents achieved higher fitness because they could use environmental cues to prepare for approaching conditions. The study does not demonstrate that cells reason as humans do. Nor does a cellular experiment prove a general philosophy of life. It does, however, offer evidence that even single cells can exploit temporal regularities in their surroundin

  2. Jul 3

    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 scientific and technical questions since 1974, including major studies on energy policy, environmental risk, and the long-range consequences of atmospheric change. Gingrich had vowed to kill the OTA during his 1994 election campaign. He kept his promise, and with it eliminated one of Congress’s primary mechanisms for converting scientific knowledge into durable legislative capacity (Wikipedia, Office of Technology Assessment; AAAS Science, 2019). A legislature cannot respond intelligently to a long-range atmospheric crisis if it has stripped away the very mechanisms designed to synthesize evidence, test assumptions, and tackle complex questions over time. What replaced deliberations mediated by experts was a vacuum quickly filled by industry lobbyists — the same industry that, amongst themselves, knew exactly what Gingrich was doing. Research on institutional dynamics in climate governance consistently finds that fragmented policy, weak intergovernmental coordination, and the erosion of technical capacity are among the most significant barriers to effective long-range climate action (Jaisridhar et al., 2025; Birchall, Bonnett, & Kehler, 2023). The thinning of Congress’s own cognitive infrastructure in 1995 was a bureaucratic adjustment that disabled the country’s capacity to govern on topics beyond the timescales and dimensions of a single administration. The political system was becoming less capable of converting recognition into sustained action precisely as the need for that conversion became most urgent. The United States not only helped create the conditions for warming but undermined its own capacity to govern the effects warming created. The atmosphere was warming and so was the willful weakening of the world's most powerful potential partner in planetary protection. CASCADES, CRISES, AND COMING TO TERMS What follows is not simply a warmer world, but a less legible and actionable one. Once a political system weakens its own capacity to think long-term, it becomes ill-equipped to face a future that arrives not as a single rupture but as a cascade of self

  3. Jun 19

    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 would ultimately help destroy them — was the allotment system. The Dawes Act of 1887 broke up communally held tribal land into individual parcels, assigning plots to enrolled tribal members and opening the remainder to white settlement. It was framed as a civilizing measure. It was in practice a mechanism for transferring Indigenous land to white hands on an enormous scale. Each parcel was drawn on a map, recorded in a ledger, and assigned a legal description. This act appeared to secure property rights while in fact it made land far easier to steal through legal machinery than it had ever been to simply seize. The discovery of oil made the theft more systematic and more lethal. When crude was found beneath allotments assigned to Native people — particularly in the Osage Nation, the Creek Nation, and elsewhere — a federal guardianship system allowed courts to appoint white guardians for Native landowners deemed “incompetent” to manage their own affairs. The definition of incompetence was flexible and self-serving. Native heirs to oil-bearing land died under suspicious circumstances with startling frequency. Deeds were forged. Guardians enriched themselves and left their wards landless. The historian David Grann has documented this in devastating detail for the Osage Nation specifically, but the pattern was region-wide. Modern GIS analysis of original allotment records against subsequent deed transfers reveals what contemporaries knew but rarely said aloud: the disappearance of Native landowners from oil country was not a coincidence, but a covert policy. For Black Oklahomans, the allotment system created a narrow window of possibility. Freedmen who appeared on the Dawes Rolls received allotments of their own. Some of this land was in proximity to other Black allottees, and the Black Towns Movement capitalized on that geography, incorporating towns, establishing churches and schools, and building the civic infrastructure that Black communities had been denied elsewhere. As scholar JT Martin has argued, the philanthropic traditions within these communities — the mutual aid societies, the church networks, the communal investment in education — were not secondary features of the Black Towns Movement but its essential architecture (Martin, 2025). People who had nothing built institutions that served everyone. Greenwood, established in the early 1900s on the northern edge of Tulsa, was the apex of that project. By 1921, it contained over thirty-five blocks of Black-owned businesses, a hospital, law offices, two newspapers, a library, schools, and churches. Booker T. Washington reportedly called it “the Negro Wall Street,” a phrase that has since become shorthand for what the neighborhood achieved. Although that shorthand flattens what was, more precisely, a masterwork of community-building under conditions designed to make community impossible.

  4. Jun 1

    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-nineteenth-century cyclists. For the moneyed elite who could afford the “safety bicycle” — the high-tech, liberating consumer gadget of the 1880s and 1890s — the machine offered an unprecedented leap in individual autonomy. Disgusted by muddy, horse-fouled, and rutted roads, these cyclists organized under the League of American Wheelmen, launching a powerful “Good Roads” movement that pioneered the smooth, paved macadam surfaces that motorists would later inherit and monopolize. While New York carved out its first dedicated bike path in 1894, when civic pressure led to the opening of the nation's first separated bike path along Brooklyn's Ocean Parkway, wealthy urbanites could now cycle down to Coney Island detached from chaotic street traffic. The parkway became NYC's first dedicated bicycle path and the first in the United States, described as the oldest bike path in the world by Guinness World Records. Simultaneously, the early elite of Pasadena and LA used the bicycle to weave together their sprawling territory. This culminated in 1900 with the opening of the California Cycleway — a spectacular, approximately 1.3-mile elevated timber bicycle toll-way running through the Arroyo Seco. Lit by incandescent bulbs and built from over 1.25 million board feet of pine, this highway offered a vision of uninterrupted, rapid commuter flow through open terrain. Though the full nine-mile route was never completed by the rapid rise of electric streetcars, its right-of-way established a profound precedent. Decades later, that exact path found a permanent place as the Arroyo Seco Parkway, LA’s first freeway, formally opening on December 30, 1940. SUBTERRANEAN SABOTAGE AND THE SOCIALIZATION SYSTEM The triumph of the automobile in Los Angeles was not an inevitability, nor was the city entirely devoid of subterranean ambition. In December 1925, Pacific Electric opened the Hollywood Subway. Boring a mile-long concrete tunnel beneath the Victorian mansions of Bunker Hill, they were able to bypass downtown LA’s already paralyzing surface congestion. Emerging from the Beaux-Arts style Subway Terminal Building on Hill Street, this route allowed Red Cars to escape street traffic en

  5. May 11

    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 African flourish at Qafzeh shrinks under examination to a few rare elements, some of them present in the region long before Homo sapiens arrived. “Africa grew” is what the revolution model looks like when biogeography becomes inconvenient. Rather than accept that early Homo sapiens dispersed beyond the continent before achieving full “modernity,” the frame extends the boundary of “Africa” to wherever the species happens to be. The terrain bends to match the model. This is where genomic evidence becomes interesting and dangerous in roughly equal measure. Ancient DNA has transformed what can be reconstructed about population structure, and the resolution is genuinely impressive. But the analytic culture around that data has often defaulted to event-style narratives: a bottleneck here, a split there, a discrete mixture of pulses at a specific date. These tidy events, plotted on a tree, recover the satisfactions of the revolution at a different scale. They imply that the past has crisp joints, making “claims for events which never actually occurred.” The caution Groucutt raises is that population structure across the deep African past was probably continuous, regionally varied, and persistently interconnected — closer to a braided river than a branching tree. Apparent “events” in the genetic record may be artifacts of how the analysis is framed rather than discrete moments in time. Treating them as facts encourages claims of historical specificity the underlying signal cannot bear. Equifinality applies to genomes too. Different histories of structure and gene flow can produce overlapping statistical signatures. What follows, methodologically, is a shift in what models are expected to do. Instead of identifying the moment, the route, or the founding population, the task becomes mapping a field of overlapping processes whose visibility varies by region, by preservation, and by the history of where archaeologists have chosen to dig. That is a less satisfying answer than a date and a place, but it’s closer to what the evidence supports. MANY CLOCKS, MANY PASTS, MANY THREADS The physicist Carlo Rovelli, in The Order of Time, makes an observation that time is not a universal river running at one rate everywhere. It is local and relational. This is not intuitive but matches reality. Atomic clocks at different elevations tick at measurably different rates because gravity dilates

  6. Apr 27

    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. Some GISc tools — like agent-based models or network analysis — already detect this excess in a geography context. A single infected traveler tips a system toward chaos not because of arithmetic addition of local interactions described in the GISc analysis, but because that traveler’s position in a network acts as an interface to a pattern of contagion whose scope was latent in the structure all along. The “geographic advantage” O’Sullivan, and crew, describes — GISc’s relationship to multi-scalar processes and human-environment couplings — is, in Levin’s vocabulary, a sensitivity to how physical arrangements act as pointers into a rich space of possible collective behaviors. This reframes world events not as linear narratives but as navigations of morphospace — the full landscape of forms a system could take, where some configurations are reachable and others are not, and where attractors pull trajectories toward specific patterns regardless of starting conditions. What pattern are current geopolitical configurations pointing toward? What is being ingressed by the particular architecture of today’s global institutions, communication networks, and urban densities? While GIScience sharpens our sight on outcomes, it leaves uncharted the deeper question of what is the shape of the latent space these material forms slip into. BORDERS STORE WHAT BODIES KNOW Levin’s work suggests at every scale of organization, we are dealing not with mechanical aggregation but with collective intelligence. To understand what he means by that, it helps to borrow an image from Einstein. Because nothing travels faster than light, any event you could possibly influence — or that could possibly influence you — is bounded by how far light could travel in the available time. Draw that boundary in spacetime and it forms a cone. Everything inside it is causally reachable, everything outside it is not. Levin borrows this image to describe the reach of any cognitive agent. A single cell’s light cone is tiny — it can only sense and respond within its immediate chemical neighborhood, over milliseconds. A brain’s light cone is vastly larger — it can model consequences years out and coordinate behavior across great distances. The cone is simply a measure of how far an agent’s agency actually extends. And just as the body is a nested hierarchy of such agents — molecular networks, cells, tissues, organs — each operating within its own cone, pursuing goals whose scale its parts cannot perceive, so too is human society. A city is not simply a dense clustering of individuals whose local interactions produce urban dyna

  7. Mar 14

    The Map that Murders and the Mind that Masks

    Hello Interactors, This one attempts to balance the privilege of cold analytical escapism with the gruesome rehumanization of past, present, and future atrocities. I end up trying to make sense of the political psychology that leads to such jubilant violence. While it can be understood, its the very intelligibility that makes it so intolerable. PRESSURE, POWER, IMPUNITY In 1965, as my umbilical cord was being severed in Iowa, U.S. soldiers in Vietnam were cutting the ears off innocent dead Vietnamese children. And their parents. The shriveling cartilage served as “proof” they were killed. They’d string them into necklaces or hoard them in “ear bags” as trophies. Their commanders demanded a tally. This morbid ritual, born from the military’s obsession with numeric “success” metrics amid “search and destroy” orders, exposed not just individual moral depravity but a systemic disregard for human life. Such barbarity serves as just another example of America’s enduring pattern of defying Geneva Conventions on civilian protections, proportionality, and prohibited weapons. These atrocities are wrapped in bureaucratic euphemisms like “collateral damage”; all to evade accountability and perpetuate unchecked imperial violence. When barbarity returned like a boomerang to hit the Twin Towers on 9/11, the term “collateral damage” was absent. But “search and destroy” came back. The 2001 Authorization for Use of Military Force authorizes the president “to use all necessary and appropriate force against those nations, organizations, or persons he determines planned, authorized, committed, or aided the terrorist attacks that occurred on September 11, 2001, or harbored such organizations or persons.” These expanded interpretations of and the idea of a “continuing, imminent threat” led to doctrines that allowed drones and bombs to be used as sanctioned forms of force across borders. Targeted killings are domestic justifications that override attempts at global legal constraints. As my own kids were being born in 2004, U.S. drones were flying across the skies over Afghanistan, Yemen, and beyond, vaporizing wedding parties, schools, and outdoor markets, shredding innocent men, women, and children into mangled flesh mixed with bone fragments. These ‘Hellfire missiles’ were sold to the public as possessing surgical precision. These “precision” killings, justified as “targeted” under the euphemism of “signature strikes,” leave behind charred craters, orphaned survivors screaming amid the rubble, and “double taps” that slaughter first responders rushing to the scene. And here again the body-count calculus of modern warfare dehumanizes the dead as mere “collateral” in an endless cycle of remote-control atrocity. However, unlike in Vietnam, groups controlling casualty numbers and combatant definitions created incentives to undercount civilian deaths to bolster the claims of legal precision. Because such reasoning was long classified, external scrutiny relied on leaks and sporadic court‑ordered disclosures. Obama deployed 10 times more drones than Bush. They all occurred in legal grey zones. They were justified through broad claims of self‑defense against “imminent threats” from non‑state actors operating in countries not formally at war with the United States. Legal assessments have found that many attacks did not meet the threshold of an “armed conflict” — meaning strikes there should have been constrained by international human‑rights law — thus violating requirements of necessity, last resort, and proportionality. Recent incidents, like the Iranian Khamenei killing, further expose gaps between law and practice. In the case of the 2020 killing of Iranian General Soleimani, scholars argue that the official rationale failed to meet the UN Charter’s Article 51 requirement of an actual armed attack. Since then, the U.S. and its allies have instead advanced an even more squishy view of “imminence” to justify anticipatory defense against imagined potential threats. Critics say these interpretations transform what was intended to be a narrow exception into a license for routine, preemptive killing. The U.S. government is seemingly unequaled in its interpretive flexibility of law. Rather than submitting to adjudication, they practice “norm‑shaping” noncompliance. This involves acting first, then using rhetoric and diplomatic influence to normalize or justify those actions. Research on the UN Security Council demonstrates how veto rights, opaque bargaining, and diluted resolutions enable permanent members to escape condemnation while weaker states are disciplined. In effect, international law becomes a language powerful states can manage, not a rulebook to obey. U.S. operations in Iran, Afghanistan, Yemen, Somalia, Iraq, and elsewhere are often positioned as short-term “strikes” meant to sustain “rules-based order.” But the U.S. doesn’t have to behave orderly. Moreover, these actions show a longstanding system where the law on force sustains hegemony. Though the justifications shift — from humanitarian intervention in Kosovo and WMD prevention in Iraq to “responsibility to protect” in Libya or preemption against terrorists or nuclear programs in Iran — the underlying logic is the same. You can see why the U.S. systemically refuses to ratify the 1998 Rome Statute. This treaty established the International Criminal Court (ICC) and grants it jurisdiction over the most serious international crimes — genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes, and the crime of aggression — committed by nationals of states parties or on their territory. It was created after ad hoc tribunals like as those in the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda to ensure accountability. But by remaining outside the Rome Statute (while accepting some of its principles in domestic law), the United States — along with Israel, Russia, and Sudan — avoids the ICC’s adjudicative authority over its own personnel and operations. The U.S. (and three other states) has essentially insulated its use of force from external legal accountability. This suggests a deeper political culture where U.S. force is assumed to be protective and exceptional. When national security conflicts with legal limits, they are negotiable, and most Americans accept this as normal. The stability of these justifications over time suggests a shared worldview and America’s place in it. It’s a settler-imperial, racialized imagination of place that makes some regions dangerous and disorderly, while viewing U.S. power as the necessary instrument for security and progress. STRUCTURES OF SPATIAL SUPPRESSION To get a better grasp of how legal gray areas become permanent features of the geopolitical landscape, we need to look beyond the law and explore the spatial imaginaries that come before it. The “lawless power” I describe is not merely a failure of international oversight; it is the modern expression of a settler-imperial logic that has long used the map as a weapon. This logic functions through what historian Patrick Wolfe termed a “logic of elimination”: a systemic drive to clear space for a dominant order by rendering the original inhabitants of that space invisible, irrelevant, or “out of place”. The bridge between the “body-count calculus” of Vietnam and the “Hellfire missiles” of today lies in the historical practice of declaring territory terra nullius — land belonging to no one. By portraying Indigenous lands as “empty” or “underused,” settler-colonial legal fictions justified removal and massacre as “regrettable but necessary” steps toward progress. This spatial erasure serves as the architectural blueprint for modern drone warfare. Just as 19th-century maps rendered Native peoples “spatially absent” to normalize dominion, modern military doctrines use “bureaucratic euphemisms” to turn vibrant communities into “trouble spots” and “problem-spaces” for management. When a “signature strike” occurs, the target is not a legal subject but a “pattern of life”. This is the ultimate form of algorithmic governance, where the individual is erased by the data-point before the missile is even fired. By defining specific regions as inherently “disorderly,” the U.S. creates domestic justifications that override attempts at global legal constraints. In this framework, regions treated as a modern “frontier” — a zone where ordinary rules of necessity and proportionality are “negotiable”. This “geometry of dominion” is not exclusive to foreign policy; it is mirrored in the way U.S. power organizes its own domestic heartland. George Lipsitz’s concept of the “white spatial imaginary” explains how space is arranged to prioritize the exclusion and property rights of the affluent while subjecting communities of color to displacement and surveillance. We see this in the physical “concrete” of urban planning: * Highway Infrastructure: Interstate routes were systematically redirected to demolish poor white, Black, and brown communities, ensuring affluent white residents could “get home faster”. * Nuisance Abatement: In cities like Los Angeles, nuisance laws are used to “preemptively reclaim” areas through speculative policing and banishment, enacting a fantasy of dominion over racialized bodies. * Racialized Sorting: The world is sorted into “secure cores” and “unruly peripheries,” a dynamic that scales from the “redlined” neighborhood to the “sanctioned zone” or “reservation”. In both the urban grid and the global borderland, the goal is this: to produce order for some while underwriting “legally malleable violence” on “others”. The “collateral damage” of an Afghan, Palestinian, or Iranian village is the international equivalent of the “nuisance” of a demolished neighbor

  8. Feb 23

    From Microsoft to the Surveillance State

    Hello Interactors, Watching all the transnational love at the Olympics has been inspiring. We’re all forced to think about nationalities, borders, ethnicities, and all the flavors of behavioral geography it entails. After all, these athletes are all there representing their so-called “homeland.” And in the case of Alysa Liu, her father’s escape from his. Between the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre and the fall of the Berlin wall, “homeland” took on new meaning for many immigrants. This all took me back to that time and the start of my own journey at Microsoft at the dawn of a new global reality. HOMELAND HATCHED HERE With all the focus on Olympics and immigration recently, I’ve found myself reflecting on my days at Microsoft in the 90s. As the company was growing (really fast), teams were filling up with people recruited from around the world. There were new accents in meetings, new holidays to celebrate, and yummy new foods and funny new words being introduced. This thickening of transnational ties made Redmond feel as connected the rest of the world as the globalized software we were building. By 2000 users around the world could switch between over 60 languages in Windows and Office. In behavioral geography terms, working on the product and using the product made “here” feel more connected to “elsewhere.” This influx of new talent was all enabled by the Immigration Act of 1990. Signed by George H. W. Bush, it increased and stabilized legal pathways for highly skilled immigrants. This continued with Clinton era decisions to expand H-1B visa allocations that fed the tech hiring boom. I took full advantage of this allotment recruiting and hiring interaction designers and user researchers from around the world. In the same decade the federal government expanded access to the United States, it also tightened security. Terrorism threats, especially after the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, spooked everyone. Despite this threat, there was more domestic initiated terrorism than outside foreign attacks. The decade saw deadly incidents like the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 by radicalized by white supremacist anti-government terrorists, which killed 168 and injured hundreds, making it the deadliest terrorist attack in U.S. history before 9/11. A year later, the Atlanta Olympic bombing and related bombings by anti-government Christian extremists caused multiple deaths and injuries. Clinic bombings and shootings by anti-abortion extremists began in 1994 with the Brookline clinic shootings and continued through the 1998 Birmingham clinic bombing. These inspired more arsons, bombings, and shootings tied to white supremacist, anti-abortion, and other extreme ideologies. Still, haven been shocked by Islamist extremists in 1993 (and growing Islamic jihadist plots outside the U.S.) the federal government adopted new security language centered on protecting the “homeland” from outside incursions. In 1998, Clinton signed Presidential Decision Directive 62, titled “Protection Against Unconventional Threats to the Homeland and Americans Overseas,” a serious counterterrorism document whose title quietly normalized the term homeland inside executive governance. But there was at least one critical voice. Steven Simon, Clinton’s senior director for counterterrorism on the National Security Council, didn’t think “Defense of the Homeland” belonged in a presidential directive. Simon’s retrospective argument is that “homeland” did more than name a policy, it brought a territorial logic of legitimacy that the American constitution had historically resisted. He recalls the phrase “Defense of the Homeland” felt “faintly illiberal, even un-American.” The United States historically grounded constitutional legitimacy in civic and legal abstractions (people, union, republic, human rights) rather than blood rights or rights to soil. Membership was to be mediated by institutions, employment, and law rather than ancestry. “Homeland” serves as a powerful cue that suggests a mental model of ‘home’ and expands it to encompass a nation. This model is accompanied by a set of spatial inferences that evoke familiarity, appeal, and even an intuitive sense. However, it also creates a sense of a confined interior that can be breached by someone from outside. This is rooted in place attachment that can be defined as an affective bond between people and places — an emotional tie that can anchor identity and responsibility. But attachment is not the same thing as ownership. Research on collective psychological ownership shows how groups can come to experience a territory as “ours.” This creates a sense of ownership that can be linked to a perceived determination right. Here, the ingroup is entitled to decide what happens in that place while sometimes feeding a desire to exclude outsiders. When the word “homeland” was placed at the center of statecraft it primed public reasoning from attachment of place through care, stewardship, and shared fate toward property ownership through control, gatekeeping, and exclusion. It turns belonging into something closer to a property claim. What makes the 1990s especially instructive from a geography perspective is that “access” itself was being administered through institutions that are intensely spatial: consulates, ports of entry, employer locations, housing markets, and the micro-geographies of office life. The H-1B expansions was not simply generosity, but a form of managed throughput in a system designed to meet labor demand. And it was paired with political assurances about enforcement and domestic worker protections. Mid-decade legal reforms strengthened enforcement by authorities in significant ways. Mechanisms for faster removals and stricter interior enforcement reinforced the idea that the state could act more decisively within the national space. The federal government found ways to expand legal channels that served economic objectives while also building a governance style increasingly comfortable with interior control. “Homeland” helped supply the conceptual bridge that made that socioeconomic coexistence feel coherent. It continues to encourage a politics of boundary maintenance that determines who counts as inside, what kinds of movement are legible as normal, and which bodies are perpetually “out of place.” If the defended object is a republic, the default language justification is legal and civic. If the defended object is a homeland, the language jurisdiction becomes territorial and affective. That shift changes what restrictions, surveillance practices, and membership tests become thinkable and tolerable over time. HOMELAND’S HOHFELDIAN HARNESS If “homeland” structures a place of belonging, then “rights” are the legal grammar that tells us what may be done in that place. The trouble is that “rights” are often treated as moral abstract objects floating above context. Legally, they are structured relations among people, institutions, and things. But “rights” can take on a variety of meanings. Wesley Hohfeld, the Yale law professor who pioneered analytical jurisprudence in the early 20th century, argued that many legal disputes persist because the word “right” is used ambiguously. He distinguished four basic “incidents” for rights: claim, privilege (liberty), power, and immunity. Each is paired with a position correlating to another party: duty, no-claim (no-right), liability, and disability. When the police pull you over for speeding you hold a privilege to drive at or below the speed limit (say, 40 mph). The state has no-right to demand you stop for going exactly 40 mph. But if you’re clocked at 50 mph, the officer enforces your no-right to exceed the limit which correlates to the state’s claim-right. You have a duty to comply by pulling over. If the officer then has power to issue a ticket, you face a liability to have your driving privilege altered (e.g., fined). But you also enjoy an immunity from arbitrary arrest without probable cause. Let’s apply that to “homeland” security. If a politician says we must “defend the homeland,” it can mean at least four different things legally: * Claim-Rights: Citizens can demand that the government protect them (e.g., from attacks). Officials have the duty to act — think TSA screening or border patrol.​ * Privileges: Federal Agents get freedoms to act without legal blocks, such as stopping and questioning people in so-called high-risk zones, while bystanders have no-right to interfere.​ * Powers: Federal Agencies hold authority to change your legal status. For example, they can label you a watchlist risk (e.g., you become a liability). This can then lead to loss of liberties like travel bans, detentions, or asset freezes.​ * Immunities: Federal Officials or programs shield themselves from lawsuits (via qualified immunity or classified data rules), effectively blocking citizens’ ability to sue. Forget whether these are legitimate or illegitimate, Hohfeld’s point is they are different forms of rights — and each has distinct costs. Once “homeland” is the object, the system tends to grow powers and privileges (capacity for overt or covert operations), and to seek immunities (resistance to challenge), often at the expense of others’ claim-rights and liberties. Rights are not only relational, but they are also often spatially conditional. The same person can move through zones of legality experiencing different practical rights. Consider border checkpoints, airports, perimeters of government buildings, protest cites, or regions declared “emergency” zones. Government institutions operationalize these spaces as “behavioral geographies” which determines who gets stopped, where scrutiny concentrates, and which movements count as suspicious. The state looks past the abstract bearer of unalienable liberties and due process

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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
    170
  • Rating
    Clean
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    © Brad Weed
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