By Jayeeta Ghosh

Final Project

Art Gallery/Artists' Community (Live/Work Spaces)
Location: South First






















































































































































































Intervention

Lighting Analysis and Pedestrian Intervention
Location: West Campus

our dear friend leslie

Bike Rack

The sun had finally shone its face, and Austin was once again bustling, as it would normally be on a fine Sunday afternoon. John Henry Faulk Library -- a quiet place for a quiet purpose. And it was just that, down Guadalupe; quiet. The readers within the library were visible from beyond its doors. Going about their individual business, people could be seen scurrying around whilst cleverly avoiding confrontation and using as minimal words as possible when the situation did arise.

Outside of the library, much of the same took place. People approached the library by bus, by bike, on foot. All had the same purpose, which was to utilize what the library had to offer; its knowledge. Despite the similarity in intent shared by these people, the confrontations which took place in front of the library were uncomfortable ones. People walking by one another either glanced at one another making the least bit of acknowledgement possible, or ignored one another altogether. One unexpected encounter did occurat the library, and its story took place at the bike rack before it.

Being used more infrequently than normal with the cold weather, today the bike rack was filled with bikes of those who were in library, as well as those were down to the street. A man who had likely spent some time in the library exited the library making his way towards this bike rack. At about the same time, another man approached the block heading in the same direction. The second man recognized the other and yelled out. They both acknowledged one another, but continued towards the bike rack before fully meeting. Here, they stood, the first by his respective bike and the other just beyond his. They exchanged the usual greetings exchanged by friends who run into one another unexpectedly, and continued talking. A few minutes passed, during which a third man had approached the bike rack. Being polite, he stood somewhat back from the other two, waiting patiently to get to his bike. The two, realizing what the the third man was waiting for, moved out of the way and ended their own encounter. Two of the men exited in one direction, and the third in the opposite.

It was after this encounter that the bike rack arose as a hub for social interaction on this quiet street, with this quiet location. A group of three students rode up together shortly after the three men left and spent what seemed too long, attaching their bikes to the rack before proceeding into the library. It was because of the inherent time lapse between parking a bike and heading inside that they had a moment to talk about their day and selves before entering into the library for their real purpose – to study.

Shortly thereafter, another encounter took place. This time, a woman wearing headphones and carrying books left the library and was taking her bike off the rack. In the mean time, a pedestrian was walking behind her passing her. Because of the proximity of space, they exchanged hellos and a few words before the pedestrian continued his walk, and the woman, too, took off.

Comparing the three scenarios, it became evident that this bike rack invoked interaction, desired or undesired, all day. Within a short period of time, an unexpected encounter between old friends had found its way there, people in acquaintance with one another arrived there together, and an exchange between two strangers was made.

STOP

The moonlight tower shone from up above. Justin was drunk. It was 4:00 am as he walked out of the party. Everyone was already heading home. Stumbling down 22nd Street he wondered if he could make it back to his dorm in one piece. It’s just a short walk from here to my place, he thought. He smiled to himself, as the buzzing in his ears still continued. Justin swaggered down the street until he felt something coming up his throat.

“No, I can’t make it!” He saw a stop sign up ahead. It’s telling me to stop. Justin stopped as he neared the sign. The bold red seemed to be commanding him. He clutched the pole as his head whirled. It ok, there are bushes at the base of the sign, he thought. Justin lurched forward and vomited.

6:54, she was late for work again. Marissa jumped in her car and turned the defrost to full blast in order to remove the winter from her windows. The radio hummed and started with a shout. She turned the volume down.

“More ice and snow,” she mumbled to herself and sighed. What was going on with Austin weather? Just then the traffic update came on. I-35 was backed up again. Great just what I need, another delay, she thought. At this rate, I’m bound to get fired.

She pulled out of her spot and rushed down the street, determined to try to make it to work as quickly as possible. Marissa decided to cut through West Campus in order to make it to the highway, less lights that way. Its just a stupid part time job at a coffee shop anyway—why did she care so much? As she sped through the intersections she thought to herself, maybe its better I get fired. She would definitely have more time for school.

Keyshia slammed the door shut. Last night had been exhausting and never ending. She needed to go out and run. Just her and the pavement. She didn’t want to think about the fight she had with her boyfriend last night. It was too emotionally draining. What was she doing? Why was she even in this relationship? The semester hadn’t even started yet. She thought she would’ve been happy to see him after coming back from the break. But here they were fighting again. She didn’t care, she didn’t want to face it.

Keyshia started running. Tears started rolling down her face. I’m just going to run away, she thought. She ran harder and harder down Nueces, until her mind grew blank. She turned the corner down 22nd past the long steel gray of the moonlight tower. It still wasn’t daylight yet. The lights still burned dimly. She grabbed the pole panting. She looked up at light but her gaze was averted by the sign. Stop. One way. There is only one way she realized. She would have to stop and think. She couldn’t just run away from her problems anymore. Just then she looked down at her tennis shoes.

“Ew disgusting, someone threw up here—and now its on my new shoes!” she exclaimed. She decided to cross over to the other side of Nueces and go back home.

Marissa fumbled with the dials, growing annoyed at hearing the traffic report. She turned the corner rolling past the stop sign unaware of Keyshia crossing the street.

Marissa looked up and turned the wheel to the right trying to avoid the jogger. The car swerved missing Keyshia. It hit the stop sign with a thud. Marissa reeled back and looked at her car. Now it would cost money to get it fixed and she’d be fired. If only she had stopped. The moonlight tower shone from above.

more than just a library...

The building on the corner of 8th and Guadelupe is much more than a library. It not only functions as a means for education, but serves as a hub that connects a variety of lifestyles that may or may not be related to learning within the building.

Library as home…

Perched on the edge of a planter, a man in sweats holds a rose and a small bag of his life possessions. Much like one would spend an afternoon on a porch swing of their own house, he spends an afternoon observing others and sharing his opinions with strangers. He has chosen to sit on the planter at the place where the sidewalk is the narrowest, and as a result he has a very commanding perch. People who pass him cannot ignore him. In this way, he has taken control and ownership over the environment, just like a homeowner would be the controlling person on the property. He shouts to an approaching friend how great church was last night and they discuss plans to eat dinner at the salvation restaurant later. These two men treat the library like their own home. They know every detail of the place. They chat about how someone moved their favorite table on the second floor to another area, but that apparently it should be replaced in a few days. They know the locations of the police officers in and around the building, and the names of the countless men who sleep around the library. The friend, about to leave, asks the man how long he will be there. The man reassures the friend that he will be there the whole afternoon, no worries. He’ll be home.

Library as obligation…

A young woman complete with ipod and messenger bag in tow, rides up to the library in a hurry. She pauses to take her keys out, pulls her bike into the rack at the front of the library, and locks it up. After taking a few gulps from a water bottle, she briskly enters the building. A short while later, she exits the building, unlocks her bike, and quickly pedals away.

Library as pleasure…

A patient looking woman directs her two children to the front of the library. All three carry large canvas totes filled with books. The small boy excitedly asks her if he can put his stack of books in the return slot. He says it’s his favorite part. She says yes and helps him reach the slot, and in turn, each canvas bag gets ridded of its contents. The three enter the library. Half an hour later, the three loudly exit the building, consumed in conversation. All carry canvas totes filled with books. The girl informs her mom which book she wants to read first, while the boy stops to pick up a leaf on the ground, dropping a few books in the process. He gets a little upset at his mistake, then plops himself down on the concrete to put the spilled books back in the bag. The mother and daughter wait, and then all three slowly meander back to their parked car. Mother walks on the sidewalk while children opt for the dangerous route, balancing themselves as they walk along the edge of the curb. They pile into the mini-van, all smiles, and drive away to continue their day.

Each of these actors traveled a different path to reach their destination. The homeless man, like the majority of the homeless men around the building, walked there, possibly just coming from taking a nap at the nearby park. The young woman arrived on bike, like many of the single people who used the library for a shorter amount of time. The family, like most groups of people, arrived in a vehicle, using the adjacent parking lot to park the car. The library provides shelter, resources and entertainment to serve a range of personalities. It is not exclusive against any kind of person. The library employs its architecture, resources and users to weave different intentions, modes of transportation, and types of people all together to create a unique urban fabric.

almost suicidal

4:35 p.m.

sunday has never been a good day for me. my dad left us on a sunday. i broke my leg on a sunday. my dog of thirteen years died on a sunday. and finally, my would be fiancé just dumped me…on a sunday. there is nothing left inside of me. i just want to end it all. my life is over. i might as well make it official.

i live in little neighborhood in austin, tx just off of rio grande. i’ve always lacked an imagination so the best way i can think to kill myself is to step in front of a car. i’ve heard of people being run over by the ut buses, being hit by inattentive drivers, or even clipped by bikers (not killed, of course). if it could happen to them, it could happen to me.

4:45 p.m.

so, on this gloomy sunday i decide to walk down to the intersection of rio grande and 12^th street. i figure the best way to get hit is to go to a busy intersection.

4:50 p.m.

i’m here. i’m at the intersection. i’ve been standing here for ten seconds and i’ve already seen four cars fly by. those seem like good numbers to me. now all i have to do is get hit by a car. i figure the best way to get hit is to stand in the middle. i’ll do it. i just have to work up the nerve.

4:52 p.m.

two runners are jogging toward the intersection. probably shouldn’t try to off myself with pedestrian traffic. they might try to stop me or save my life and that’s the last thing that i want. i’ll wait a few minutes until i’m out of their view.

4:54 p.m.

no pedestrians. a couple of motorcycles. both yellow. that’s kind of weird. a handful of bikers. they wouldn’t try to stop me. not a single person has looked at me since i’ve been on this corner. i guess now is the time to dance with the cars.

4:56 p.m.

standing in the middle of the median and it seems like everyone is driving around me. it seems like everyone is staying straight. absolutely no one is turning through the median. it must be a sign. i’ll wait a few more minutes.

4:57 p.m.

two girls just walked up to the corner. one black girl and one mexican. looks like they’re waiting for the bus. buses don’t run on sundays. why is she looking up at the moonlight tower? the black girl just pulled out what looks like a sketchbook. oh no. they just noticed me. the mexican girl is taking pictures. what kind of person takes pictures of someone trying to kill themselves? is that girl sketching me? does she see the pain in my eyes? probably not. she’s kind of far. the black girl is screaming something at me. what is she saying? i can’t really hear her over the traffic, or lack thereof now. what is she saying? looks like the mexican is crossing the street. i should probably move. i don’t want her to get hit. traffic is waning. i might as well take a break.

4:57:32

that car got really close! i could feel the heat of the radiator on my leg. now would be a good time to run.

4:57:59

on the curb!

5:00 p.m.

the two girls are heather and marissa. turns out that they are architecture students at the university and they are perched at the corner of rio grande and 12^th street for an assignment. something about the moonlight tower. i don’t understand. i don’t think they do either. i take a peek at heather’s sketchbook, she’s taking tallies of how many cars, bikers, mopeds, and walkers move through the intersection. no wonder i haven’t been hit yet. not too many people. maybe this isn’t the best way to commit suicide.

5:05 p.m.

even though this is the weirdest thing i’ve ever done, i’ve decided to sit here and count cars with heather. she and marissa seem really happy, and it might be rubbing off on me. maybe.

5:07 p.m.

heather is getting kind of restless. and maybe a little upset. one guy has driven through the intersection three times. heather seems to think that he is messing with her statistics. she has decided to name call him marcus. marissa thinks he looks more like a curtis. marissa laughs.

5:08 p.m.

why doesn’t anyone drive through the intersection south on rio grande?

5:08:12 p.m.

a moped!

5:10 p.m.

i kind of need to pee. so i say goodbye to the girls. i’m kind of tired. i guess i won’t kill myself today. i can put it off a couple of days.

The city is not an inferno

On the first sunny day in weeks I drove across I-35 to sit under the moon tower at Chicon and East 15th Street. A busy intersection with a bus stop bench at each of its four corners and two competing convenient stores, the site bustled with activity and I sat down on one of those four benches opposite a forty-something man drinking a forty ounce beer in a brown paper bag. He told me I just missed the bus. I said it was not my intent to ride the bus and he replied the same.

I inquired as to his purpose for sitting on the bus stop bench if he did not intend to get on the bus. The man countered that he hoped I would not be put off, but he was a bum, and did I mind if he drank his beer in front of me? I said no, as long as he didn’t mind my cigarette and he turned me down when I offered him one. Drinking was his problem, and I should quit smoking.

With that humble introduction we passed two hours on that bench with hardly a lapse in conversation. My project intrigued him and as the man helped me observe the neighboring activity he told me stories from his life and how he came to make the city his home. He launched into his dissertation with this one thesis: being a bum is the hardest job he’s ever had.

Episodes of paranoia riddled the man’s thoughts but I suppose that comes with the territory when one makes a home on the street. First he said that he cannot sit at any one bus stop for too long because if a police car drives by and sees him on the same bench for an hour they would indict him for public intoxication or loitering. I wondered where a man without a home is supposed to sit and enjoy a cold beer, alcoholic or not. He told me about cameras in stoplights and cameras at bus stops. I guess I always knew of the possibility of cameras but like the moon towers I was oblivious to their existence until today. The man sat at this stop because there weren’t any cameras here and he could drink his beer. As time passed I noticed that most of the people perched on the surrounding benches were not getting on the buses, and the people coming out of the convenient stores came out with beers in brown paper bags and joined the ranks of us loiterers. What this area of east Austin lacked in public spaces the public substituted with the city bus benches. It seemed I’d inadvertently come into contact with a significant object in the urban landscape of east Austin: the homes of the homeless.

So simple are the who, what, when, where, why of this urban object. Who: the homeless or anyone who just wants a place to relax outside with a beer. What: a place to sit, which happens to be a bus stop. When: all day every day. Where: any bus stop without cameras. Why: because being homeless is the hardest job you can have and everyone needs a place to pass the time.

We talked about the government, and how when he votes for Hillary Clinton in the upcoming election it will mark the second time he’s voted in his life. He told me about serving in the military and living all across the United States, how he hates Austin because it has only brought him bad luck, how his bad luck involves a woman hyped up on methamphetamines, and that he used to make pistons for $851 a week before drinking became a full time job. He showed me the seventeen stitches he got last week when a gang at the bus stop up at 38 1/2 and I-35 beat him up for his military sleeping bag. He told me about panhandling and that he can make fifteen to twenty dollars in a day from complete strangers who happen to be feeling generous. If I wanted a real experience to write about, I should try panhandling because you can meet some crazy people that way. I said I’d try it then and there, but apparently 15th Street is off limits. We talked about Quentin Tarantino films and his alleged 5,000 movie DVD collection in a storage unit in Dallas. He read seven books last month and can finish a novel in two days. He tried to quote Dante but couldn’t remember the Italian unless he wrote it down, so when I gave him my notebook he filled it in with some words I didn’t know: “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” said it meant “Abandon all hope ye who enter here,” and I believed him. He was right. He then chastised me for not asking his name yet, and I said he hadn’t asked for mine either. So I came to know him as Roger.

How apropos that Roger should admire Dante’s Inferno. The man had in one sitting relayed to me his own past initial joy and final damnation and I could not ignore the somewhat glorified metaphor of the bus stop as his own personal gate of hell. After all, it epitomized his lack of direction or reprieve from a life of unending boredom and untapped potential, not to mention his enslavement to alcohol abuse and an unsympathetic government system. Roger’s bleak outlook on his life situation recalled Inferno’s Opportunists: the souls of the people who in life did not commit evil deeds, as Roger had never even gotten a misdemeanor and did not believe in injuring another person to boost his own prosperity, but also lost sight of any valid or righteous cause for living. In no way would I condemn Roger as a lost soul in Hell Proper; rather, he stood outside the gate with an astounding insight of his position and an immense accountability for how he got there.

I did not tell Roger what I was thinking, only that I was enjoying the time spent observing people when they didn’t know they were being watched. The longer I sat and observed the more validation I got for my own thesis. Nearly every person littering those four benches sat there only to sit. The buses came by and stopped, but the people never got on them. They merely took a moment to slip their brown-bagged beverage behind their back, only to pull it back out after the bus had moved on without them. They were people with nowhere to go and only a bus stop bench to sit on. In this way, the bench as an urban object connected a demographic of people I had never come into full contact with before today.

I was feeling pretty fucking smart with all this Dante’s-Gates-of-Hell-metaphor-for-an-East-Austin-bus-stop shit when Roger went into the convenient store to buy another beer with the two dollars I’d given him for his help on the project. A cop drove by for the second time and I was glad Roger had gone inside at that moment. I guess I don’t look much like a threatening loiterer. Roger came back to the bench and I told him about the cop, that I’d feel terrible if he got in trouble because of me, and that we should both probably move on. He fellated my ego by saying this was the best afternoon of intelligent conversation he’d had in a while, and could I spare just another eighty cents?

I was handing over the last two bucks in my wallet not knowing whether to feel like a hypocrite when my friend Roger uttered the sentence that would repute every piece of this bullshit pompous self-glorifying essay on Dante’s bus stop I had so proudly constructed in my mind. “Emily, I’ve got to tell you because I think you should learn from this: I was just panhandling you.” I said, “Wait, no, we were just talking.” And he said, “Yes, but how much money did you give me? All the money in your wallet. You didn’t have to give me anything. I would have talked to you whether you gave me the money or not. I just thought you should know what I did to you and learn from it.” I had to give him credit; he had to work for those four dollars. And with that I walked away completely dismantled and wondering how many other people he’d talked out of four dollars on a lonely bus stop bench.

Moonlight Tower Murder

This is where it all began. Gosh, I cant believe it has been three years since the accident. Beneath this moonlight tower, this beacon of light in the darkness of the night. Its ironic that something so tragic could happen beneath something designed for the sole purpose of safety. The memory of the accident was long forgotten, with so many other equally as tragic incidents to distract the city there was almost no recollection of this particular incident at all.

Now, just as it had been before this terribly unfortunate event, things were running their normal course and at a speed that only regularity can bring. This intersection of 22nd and Nueces is just any other intersection to those unaware of what happened, but those closest to her will never forget it.

Three years. Even so the events of that night run through my head so often I don’t think I could forget any detail if I tried. It was a typical Saturday night of not knowing what we were going to do and only at the last minute finding a party through a friend’s friend. We promised each other that if the party just wasn’t for us that we would just go home and relax, perhaps watch a movie. After being at the party for like 15 minutes or so I really didn’t feel very comfortable so, reluctantly, she agreed to leave. This is the part of the story that really gets me because both of us had walked this route hundreds of times both during the day and at night with little or no incident. Come to think of it neither of us had ever witnessed any major problem at all at this particular intersection. This intersection was a typical west campus intersection, a one way street intersecting a two way street and with stops signs in all directions. Some people said at the time it was the fault of the construction company near by, seeing as there were signs all over the street warning of the dangers of the construction site. It was one of these signs that was said to have slightly hindered the driver’s sight from seeing the stop sign. All I could think was that these signs had been there for months so surely he would have already driven through and known there was a stop sign there. Later we would find out that the driver was severely intoxicated from a night of partying as he had just turned 21 and was using his newly acquired ability to go down to 6th street and buy himself as many drinks as he wanted. This in the end was the final reason for his conviction of manslaughter.

It was these events, when we actually got to the intersection, that I would run through my head the most. Why did we step out into the street so assuredly the car would stop? Why didn’t we even take the time to look at the oncoming car? These are the questions that need no answer. In any other circumstance there would be no problem, there would be no question that the car would stop. In any other circumstance the driver could have not been drinking or he could have seen the stop sign and stopped or the construction sign would have been farther back as to not get in the way of the stop sign but on this particular day none of these were the case.

Every once and a while I will go to that intersection and just sit to observe the way the intersection runs so smoothly. I see a constant interaction between the people walking, the people just meeting up with friends, people on bicycles, the cars and any other object or being that is joining in the everyday interaction of an intersection.

These are the simple facts that one sees at an intersection that is guided by stop signs. Cars yield to other cars that were there first. Pedestrians have the right of way. In the end it was these simple rules of the stop sign that ultimately lead to her death.

The all-powerful traffic light at the unusually deserted intersection

It is hard to believe that just a few days ago Austin was coated in a considerably thick (really more like a ¼ of an inch) layer of ice. Confusion swept the city. Accidents occurred everywhere. Children frolicked in the once green pastures trying to make miniature snowmen. Adults fought off cabin fever. And architecture students rejoiced as they snuggled up in bed and slept that extra few hours or watched that fifth movie of the day. But today is Sunday and the “Texas Winter” weather has returned.

The sun is shining brightly for the first time in a week, warming the air surrounding the ACC Rio Grande Campus to an almost spring-like 65 degrees. It seems all too perfect. This is the type of weather off of which the city of Austin thrives. But something is different here. Whereas the rest of the city is probably alive and well, this intersection is abandoned, forsaken…dead. All that seems to be missing is tumbleweed and the music from an old western film playing softly in the background.

A few blocks down, Creighton hovers over his bicycle, carefully pumping air into each of its two tires. Just as he screws the cap onto the valve of the back tire, his girlfriend, Felicity, emerges from inside the house, strapping her helmet onto her head and flashing a wide grin. A single glance at her, with her hair being pushed into her face by the large object on top of her head, sends Creighton into hysterics. In one swift motion, Felicity removes her helmet and hurls it at her boyfriend. The two share a laugh for a moment, then grab their bikes from the floor of the garage to set on Rio Grande Street for their weekly downtown ride.

On campus, Jeremy, a sophomore at UT, locks the door to his apartment on Rio Grande, hops into his SUV, puts the key in the ignition, and buckles his seat belt without once removing his cell phone from his left ear. He laughs aloud as his best friend reminds him of what he did at the party the night before. Suddenly, he hears a beep and glances at his phone. It’s his mother. After cutting the conversation with his friend short, he answers the call, apologizes for running late, and assures her that he will be at the restaurant within ten minutes. As he quickly approaches 12th Street, he hangs up the phone, turns up the radio. and slows down as the light turns yellow.

With a bag in hand, Hubert makes his way back home from Lamar. Remembering all the unfortunate events of the prior week, he frowns and begins to stomp his feet. After being fired from his job and the car being rear-ended by some moron college student who was driving too fast on the ice, all he wanted was a bagel from Einstein’s for breakfast. A simple bagel with cream cheese…is that too much to ask? Apparently so because he awoke to find a note from his wife saying that she took the car to go shopping. Perfection! Deciding there was no way a lack of transportation would keep him from getting that bagel, he laced up his tennis shoes and walked. Sure, the trip to Einstein’s was an easy one. Each step brought him closer to his tasty reward. But now? Now that his stomach was full and his goal reached, all he had left to do was return home…on foot. Not even an extra bagel for the road could make this enjoyable. As he walks up 12th Street towards Rio Grande, he sees a car at the stop light and a young couple riding up on bicycles. At least they have a mode of transportation. How wonderful. With this sudden jealousy, Hubert picks up his pace, hoping against all odds that he will be able to cross the street before the light on 12th turns red.

When Creighton and Felicity pull up to the intersection, they are forced to come to a halt, the red light blaring at them. There is no traffic on 12th Street, but they stop anyway. Almost immediately, the light turns green and the car next to them speeds off. From across the street, Jeremy watches the couple, waiting for them to cross the street so he can turn onto 12th. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he sees the young woman struggle to start pedaling, wondering to himself if he should have just gone on red. Once she crosses, he quickly turns and speeds toward downtown, wishing that he hadn’t stayed at home that extra 15 minutes to see the end of the last episode of “The Real World”.
As the car’s taillights disappear and the young couple rides off into the distance, Hubert finds himself alone, cursing the fact that he didn’t make it to the light in time to cross. He waits for a few moments, shifting his focus from the red hand staring him down on the other side of the street to the barren intersection. Finally, he decides he has had enough and crosses prematurely. Striding swiftly and gracefully, he glances suspiciously at the two architecture students seated at the otherwise deserted bus stop. As the space between him and the intersection increases, all movement ceases once more except for the changing color of the traffic lights. Green, yellow, red: three simple colors; three separate messages; a worldwide understanding.

En route

A brief hiatus from the recent unpleasant weather, I would have hoped, would yield a more successful urban encounter than the preceding days. However, not much was different, and this was to no real surprise. My grievance is that the urban fabric to be observed isn’t as colorful as it’s esteemed. Against my normal proclivity to find the extraordinary, I chose to observe street traffic—a mundane phenomenon shared by every city; it’s unnoticed and yet demanding existence caught my attention.

The quintessence of contemporary urban thought relies on activity, bustle, and the progress. This manifests itself best in its most obvious and effective form of the road—an urban conduit designed to transport people from A to B. The city is overwhelmed with streets, and manytimes are they the most recognizable thing about an area. I observed a regular Sunday afternoon’s happenings between Guadaulupe and 8th and 9th streets.

The actors are most commonly the car, the biker, and the pedestrian—all of course linked by their means of transportation, and their contribution to the urban spirit. Their interaction, as did their personal narrative, diminished with respect to size and speed.

Myriad pedestrians used the streets and sidewalks, although rarely following traffic laws, to get to their destination. Some, however, were simply walking for leisure. A man was walking his girlfriend’s dog with little idea to where he was going--a local nomad who had recently moved downtown to be a part of the very urban dream which he helped sustain. He followed the encircling path of the nearby park and strolled past the city library twice before heading back home. The dog wouldn’t do its business, and so the man’s only response was to continue walking it with plastic bag in hand. The couple stopped and waited at a “do not walk” crossing signal as the ever-present traffic streamed through, and a pair of bikers unsuccessfully kept with the pace of traffic on their uphill struggle.

The bikers stopped amidst a rush of cars at a red light as the man and dog passed them by per the directions of the “walk” crossing signal. They had biked from West Campus looking forward to a fun downtown ride in search of some denim jackets to match their stellar jeans. The faint revving of engines meant the light had turned green, and the cars obediently went on as they had done at each preceding light; the bikers prepared dumbfoundedly for a swift downhill journey and took to the temporarily empty sidewalks before they were soon out of sight.

Cars came and went like lifeless sheep, revealing fragments of the people who occupied their bellies through the occasional thump of a loud base or a cell phone conversation loud enough to be heard over the hum of idling engines.

The street in an urban context has become more than a suggested path of travel; it goads the “en route” notion of urban doings on several levels. It is obvious where the pedestrian came from, what he is doing, and where he is off to next. The biker still retains a sense of personality, but for a brief period of time. The automobile, given its inhuman shape and speed, loses all effects of personal presence. These three means of movement co-exist at different tempos and scales under the prescribed direction of traffic to make Austin a rhythmically diverse city.

The Moonlight tower, located on the corner of Nueces and W. 22nd street, illuminates the desolate streets of west campus as students are at home resting. awaiting yet another beautiful day of classes.

But this story is not about the Moonlight tower nor does it take place at night. It is the story of the admirable parking meter, which entangles the lives of the student, the officer of the law, also known as the meter maid, and the often overlooked urban squirrel, that I am about to share with you

The Student...

The student drives north down 21st street in dire search of an open parking spot, that represents a short brisk walk to class. Catching a glimpse of the parking meter in the corner of his eye, the student lets out a short gasp of satisfaction. After skillfully maneuvering his car into the vacant spot, he swiftly opens the door and climbs out of the driver's seat, quickly closing the door behind. He approaches the parking meter like an experienced veteran. He has been here before and he knows what to do. He confidently inserts the correct amount of change into the parking meter that ensures that his car will be covered for the duration of his morning class. He walks away with a smirk drawn across his face, knowing only a short distance stands between him and another pleasant day. The parking meter serves as a beacon of democracy. In west campus, where parking is few and far between, anyone with appropriate change may parallel park his car beside it and be provided a few hours of parking bliss.

The Officer of the Law (aka meter maid)...

Although an officer of the law on a technicality, this man takes full advantage of any opportunity to exert his authority. From the depths of the underworld, he lurks around street corners casually sneaking from meter to meter. This meter maid has found a new victim. The absent-minded student neglected to refill the meter, when he decided to dine on campus after his morning class, and now his car falls to the fate of an expired parking meter. Upon observing this parking meter, the officer shows no sympathy and swiftly withdraws a small black booklet from his back pocket. Writing down a few notes, he firmly slides the slip of paper beneath the windshield of the students car. Although the meter maid is seen as just an annoyance to most he plays an integral role in the survival and functioning of the graceful parking meter.

The Urban Squirrel...

This little creature knows little of a life seperate from the urban fabric that is engulfing the Austin area. Well experienced in human interaction, this squirrel shows no fear at the site of man and automobiles, but instead crawls nearer in hope of food. To him the parking meter is just another of many "urban trees" that overpopulate the area. The urban squirrel scurries up and down the pole of the parking meter in order to burn all the calories he has accumulated over the winter, because the urban squirrel knows the advantages of staying fit. He will also use the parking meter in the daily games of chase that he organizes amongst his friends.

gray box

The wheat paste gums his fingers as he fumbles with the small poster. It is dark, but the vague light of the tower still makes him nervous. He must be quick. The gray metal box in front of him has been used before. Pieces of other advertisements and statements encrust it, clinging to the thin residue of glue still remaining. They tell of events past and sentiments forgotten and of the many others who have furtively made their posts in the night. Clumsily scrawled tags of permanent marker cover the box, only to be endlessly written over and washed away by the rain. Their authors do not realize that the only ones who recognize these territorial claims are those who would replace the most recent name with their own. It is an old game, played in many cites and on many surfaces. The cycles of creation and destruction, of overwriting and whitewash form an endless loop. The layers of poster and glue and ink grow like mold on these surfaces, with the organic binders shrinking and the pigments fading in time. Though shop owners and weather occasionally erase this build up, it soon begins again, at night, as if alive. His contribution is political. The photocopied cartoon depicts politicians, oil, money, and blood, a story no doubt already familiar to those who pass the box. Still, he thinks, it needs to be done. With the coffee shop next door he anticipates his sign might get good exposure. Done at last, he thinks. He checks down the sidewalk to see if anyone has spotted him. Confident, he walks away, fantasizing about those he might anger and those who might agree.

The city worker arrives at dawn. He opens the gray box and checks the readings, marking them on his clipboard. Behind him, the first customers of the coffee shop begin to arrive, paying him no attention. He packs his things into the truck, preparing to leave. He closes the door to the box and, as is his custom, removes the week’s worth of graffiti accumulated since his last visit. He laughs at the crude political cartoon. Today he is lucky, the glue is still wet. It comes off in one sheet.

Here is the writing on the page since you prob can't read that!:

THE TEACHER

A design teacher enters his class’s studio in Goldsmith on the University of Texas campus in Austin at 4:00 PM on a Friday afternoon. He holds a cup of coffee and a satchel.

“Good afternoon everyone, could we gather for a minute?” The students scurry from their various corners in the room to stand in a semi circle about him. “I have a funny story, some good news and some bad news for you all. We will start with the funny story. So, as all of you know, I love my coffee very much. And like any other normal day, I made my cup at my house today, fixed it up and left to come here. And for the record, I was going to be on time. Anyways, I was walking down 22^nd towards the architecture buildings just minding my own business. I am sure you all know of the new apartment building that was just finished down the road; I hadn’t really given it any attention before today and what not so I sort of looked at it and pondered it as I continued to walk. I had heard of the architect before but I was not at all familiar with any of his work. So you all know, I would not in anyway, ever recommend him to anyone… As I crossed the street, I took a sip of my coffee and continued to look up at the structure until BOOOOOM. For a reason I didn’t know at the time, I was watching my coffee pour out of its cup onto the street…. At eye level. I wondered for a second why in the world I would be seeing the street and my fallen coffee at eye level. Then I looked down. I had fallen into an open manhole!!” The class roars with laughter for a few seconds as he professor tries to regain their attention. “I had not even seen the safety cones or the workers, much less the open manhole in the midst of my thought about this truly bland building! One of the worker men was kind enough to come over and help me out of the hole, but it took the two of us a bit to find the shoe I had lost when I fell into the hole. Which is great for you guys, because I am an hour late for our desk critiques. What is even BETTER for you guys, is that I am leaving for the rest of the day to visit the doctor and make sure I am alright.” A happy tone of chatter fluttered through the room with the thought of a free summer day. “But, the bad news is, I have an assignment for you guys that you will find very difficult without me here to explain… but, hey, that’s architecture school! Good luck guys- see you tomorrow.” The professor left the room as quickly as he had come allowing each of the students to begin their weekend early. All because of a manhole.

THE DRIVER

A young girl is driving to work around 3:30 PM on a Wednesday morning. She has her cell phone glued to her ear as she talks to her closest friend and is paying little attention the life going on outside of her Mercedes. She turns onto Pearl from Martin Luther King Just before she is stopped by a worker because of an open manhole.

Girl: Oh my gosh, you have to be kidding me!

Friend: What’s wrong?

Girl: I am already late for work and this idiotic worker man is telling me to stop. GOSH! What do I do know? I am on a one way so I cant turn around.

Friend: Gosh, that sucks, why are they stopping you?

Girl: I don’t know, Urgh- I keep honking at him, but something is happening on the ground.

(Pause)

Girl: Weird, there is a man climbing out of a man hole!

Friend: WHAT??! What do you think he was doing down there? Is he alright? Do you think he is a supervisor or something?

Girl: Haha, no he is wearing slacks and a button down and carrying a coffee: he looks like a teacher from UT or something like that, but I dunno.

Friend: Well, honk and ask the worker what is going on. You know that the boss will kill you if you are late again. I can’t believe I got you this job and you are late all the time.

Girl: Shut up! That is so unfair. You don’t even have a job right now, so don’t lecture me on how I handle mine!

Friend: Well, I am just saying, it looks bad for me when you…

Girl: OOOh- hold on, one of the guys is coming to talk to me! I am gonna go, I will call you later and let you know.

As the girl hangs up her phone, a man in an orange construction hat asks her to roll down her window.

Worker: Excuse me ma’am, I apologize for the hold up, but we are having to do some survey work in this particular sewer. A man just fell into the hole and that’s why we had to stop you. However, there is enough room on the side so we can let you pass.

Girl: Is he alright?

Worker: Yes ma’am, he appears to be fine. You can go ahead and pass by the flagger now. Have a nice day.

Girl: Thank you.

THE WORKER

A middle aged man sits down at his desk at a local construction company’s headquarters to write a summary of his day in his personal log. It had been an extremely long Friday for the construction worker and his frustration with his job showed through in his writing.

January 19, 2007

My three man crew and I began our day working on pipelines near a new apartment construction site as usual. The site was near the corner of 22^nd and Pearl street, very close to one of those historic Austin moon towers. The perimeter of the work site was marked off, taking up as little room as possible to avoid situations with vehicular traffic as well as pedestrians. Bright orange cones were used at each corner of the site and we all wore the standard orange vests supplied by the company. The morning went by smoothly today as we worked in our assigned manhole in west campus. We broke for lunch around noon and took an hour off leaving the manhole unattended, but closed it to avoid issues with troublesome university students. Before we left, we used tape to further show our work area so that we could quickly get back to work when we got back. When we returned, our manhole was just as we had left it with the tape and cones undisturbed. There had been no issues with pedestrians or vehicles. So, once again we removed the cover off the top of the manhole and proceeded about our work. After a couple of hours, we took a short break less the 10 yards from the hole. At that point, I watched a professor walking by. As though it were the only thing in the world, he kept staring up at the recently finished Quarters apartment complex across the street. Even though I yelled at him to watch out, he didn’t hear me or just wasn’t listening. He fell straight down into the manhole. Poor guy spilled coffee everywhere. I ran and pulled him out of a hole just as a car pulled up and started honking. I had accidentally knocked a cone just enough too far into the road for her to pass when I went to get this guy out. Apparently the bitch was in a real hurry cause she kept honking. The dumb guy that fell in our hole had lost his shoe, so I had to find that for him before I could move the cone for the driver! Finally I got the man on his way, and he seemed like he was fine. I moved the cone and let the girl pass. I just don’t think I will ever see anything like that again.

Water Tag

If there was ever a perfect day to be drinking water, it was today. Well, maybe it wasn't, but it was just as good a day as any other. So, I grabbed a bottle of water as I headed out the door on my way to 22nd and Nueces. Although this seemed entirely inconsequential at the time.

As soon as I got to the moonlight tower I realized that I had no idea what I was looking for. None.

After a brief bout of utter confusion, I realized that my water bottle was empty and that I needed to throw it away and what better to throw it away in than the dumpster across from the tower on 22nd. Normally, I would've just chunked the bottle from as far away as I could while still feeling confident that I could make it, but, partially because of our project and mostly because of my friend who's got me interested in stenciling over the past few days, I decided to walk up to the dumpster to throw away my bottle and, consequentially, get a better look at the spray painted tags all over it.

Tagging is interesting. Personally, I can't see the point of quickly spraying your name or pseudonym (alias, whatever) on any surface available and I've always kinda wanted to ask someone like "Mikey" or "Consume" why they do it.

Had I been at that dumpster a year ago Mikey might've told me why he does what he does.

Mikey was tired. He'd been sitting on the sidewalk in front of the Jamba Juice on Guadalupe all day hoping for the generosity of the people walking by. He hadn't had much luck today. Just enough to buy himself a bottle of water. People underestimate the value of clean drinking water. If you're in the city you can find food in trash cans and usually bum some liquor off a friend but clean drinking water is invaluable. He'd left his post on Guadalupe about an hour ago and was wandering an alley between 22nd and 23rd a little past Nueces and had just run out of water. He may not have a job anymore but he still liked to throw his trash in an appropriate container when possible. That, and when he went through the effort to find a dumpster it also gave him another chance to find a bite to eat. That's why he was in that specific alley. He knew that the light from one of Austin's famous moonlight towers would be enough to enable him to see the contents of the dumpster.

He was out of luck tonight. Even with the light from the tower he hadn't been able to find any food but he did find an almost unused can of spray paint.

He had been living here in Austin now for almost 13 years. 6 years in an apartment and 7 years on the street since he'd been fired from his last job. He'd seen tags all over everything in Austin and now he figured it was his turn to claim something and what better to claim than his lifeline for the last 7 years.

5 minutes later Mikey was walking away down the alley with fresh smell of spray paint in his nose and a slightly used can of spraypaint in his hand.

In fact, the can of paint had only been deposited in the dumpster an hour earlier by a character of an entirely different nature.

Consume was the alias of a junior at the University of Texas. She liked to think that she was clever; she wasn't very, but she liked to think she was.

She'd actually started tagging 5 years ago, but had yet to find her identity as a tagger and changed her name every few months or so depending on what intrigued her most and how she felt she could make the best "social statement."

For the past few months she'd been calling herself Consume and tagging dumpsters all over the Austin area because she thought that if people saw the word "consume" as they threw their bags in the dumpster they would be forced to think about the ridiculous amounts of products they consumed on a daily basis. What she failed to realize was that no one cared and those that did didn't need to be reminded.

At least she'd been smart enough to start as far away from the campus as possible. She knew that police patrols were more frequent the closer to campus she got and only in recent weeks had she deigned to get this close to campus. That night she learned just how much greater the risk was. She had actually been seen by a patrol as she was finishing tagging the dumpster off 22nd and Nueces and had had to ditch her paint in the dumpster in case she was caught as she ran away she might have a little plausibility when she said it wasn't her they'd seen.

These are all things that I would've known had I been hanging out by a dumpster in an alley off of 22nd slightly past Nueces at 2 o'clock in the morning a year ago, but, instead of a declaration of ownership or a social statement, all I saw when I threw away my water bottle was a mysteriously tagged dumpster.

The Other Side of Urban

Although one of the seemingly less obvious locations to observe urban interactions between citizens and the city system, the northern most portion of Zilker Park became a sweet escape from the hectic, fast paced drone of the city bustle for Austinites Sunday evening. The park hosts a variety of daily occurrences and is located next to perhaps the most famous moonlight tower in Austin, that which provides the basis for the Zilker Christmas Tree. As sunset approached, the sky began to blanket the large open field with a calming orange hue, covering the various groups of people scattered throughout the field. Despite being expansive and very open, almost every area of the park provides a picture perfect view of the downtown Austin skyline. This view is the defining feature that makes the park a truly special and sought after location for people of various backgrounds. The draw is certainly not to the landscape, which is in horrible condition due to the Austin City Limits Festival that takes place here every year. A portion of the parking lot, completely destroyed and filled with all types of machinery, creates an extremely unattractive eye sore. Not to mention, Port-o-Potties provide the only means of relief, and yet, the park is filled daily with people who don’t even give these obstructions a second thought. To them, the park is a diamond in the rough, a beautiful release from the urban insanity that they can’t indefinitely deny a love for. However the escape is just a block away from said insanity, and therefore is urban indeed.

5:45

A specific pathway appeared to be the most concentrated of all the objects in the park. As I approached the start, a girl ran directly across the path, chasing a stray soccer ball her boyfriend had kicked too hard just to get a good laugh as she ran to try and catch it in vain. After she finally got the ball, she tried unsuccessfully, to get him back by counter-kicking it too hard but it just flew off in a random direction and thus she was forced to run after it once again. It was absolutely pitiful but they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves in the cool evening air, taking in the beauty of the skyline and just enjoying the outside. Eventually they tired and settled on the massive boulder located in the center of the park, cuddling and peering across town lake to the ever shifting urban metropolis that is Austin.

6:00

By this time it was getting darker and I noticed a large group of people moving robotically across the pathway towards the parking lot. They almost never got more than a foot away from each other and they were walking very slowly. In order to avoid disturbing a group of young soccer players sitting next the path, this group chose to stay to the south of the path, never actually stepping onto it but following parallel. The group leader was a boy of about ten pushing a baby stroller followed by some female members of his family. A young girl in the group looked off towards downtown and said something unintelligible to another member of the group, to which the woman responded by pointing at the UT Tower, as if she were answering her question. When the group reached an especially muddy portion of earth, they veered further off the path to avoid getting the stroller stuck. In the process, they cut off a young girl in a Rasta hat walking north towards Town Lake. She paused politely, but quickly made up for lost time after they passed by running a few steps ahead. The group eventually intersected the pathway where it hit the parking lot and shuffled into a large minivan, concluding their relaxing day at the park.

6:15

The aforementioned Rasta girl listened to her Ipod and continued to walk swiftly down the path towards a group of teenagers gathered in a circle at the end of the path. The path ended abruptly in the center of the grass, which seemed odd for some reason. However, it was interesting to note how far from the parking lot people ventured before veering off in their own directions. This particular group settled right in the middle of all the action. It became apparent that these teenagers were very loud, hyper, and simply enjoying being in Zilker Park on such a beautiful day. The Rasta girl seemed slightly more withdrawn than her peers, and chose to stand on the outside of the mayhem as her friends kicked a soccer ball to one another. She and another girl set down together and shared headphones as Rasta girl played her favorite I Tunes for her friend. Eventually, they all settled in the grass staring towards downtown, laughing and talking about how much fun they had together in the park that day.

6:30

Darkness began to overwhelm the last remains of daylight as most people slowly exited the park via the pathway. I followed suit, however not before stepping in a large puddle of mud as I snapped one last picture of the fading Austin skyline.

BRITE FOODMART

It was Sunday. The first nice day in weeks and even though most things were closed people were roaming the streets: walking their children, driving their cars, and riding the bus. Across from the moonlight tower on Chicon and Martin Luther King stands the BRITE FOODMART. Its color, location, purpose, and surroundings make it a natural gathering point promoting human interaction.
On the corner of these two streets in East Austin, a bus arrives and unloads a single person carrying a large sack of dirty clothes. Headed for the Laundromat behind the foodmart, Michael walks around the bright pink store and enters the Laundromat to begin washing his load of clothes.

After a few minutes of being in the Laundromat, Michael walks out of the door and walks into the foodmart. He enters, looks to the cashier, motions a “hello”, and moves into the back of the store towards the drinks. He goes to the Coca-Cola, reaches in a grabs a cold can, then moves to the candy and carefully looks over the chocolate choices. He chooses Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and proceeds to the check-out counter.

José, the cashier, takes the items and scans them into the computer trying to carry on a little small talk with his customer. They discuss the weather, past and present, and José talks about how business has been slow the entire week due to the ice.

“Two twenty-three,” José says to Michael as Michael hands him a five dollar bill. José returns the change into Michael’s hand and passes him the Coke and candy. They exchange goodbyes as Michael walks out of the store and returns to the Laundromat to finish his clothes.

While walking out of one door and into another, Michael encounters a man who is carrying one full bag of cans and is working on gathering cans to fill another bag. He has seen this man before but has never interacted with him in person. Michael continues to walk towards the Laundromat drinking his Coke and eating his candy. He goes in, folds his clothes and places them into his large duffel bag again. He finishes his snacks and walks out the door towards the bus stop. As he is approaching the bus stop, he stops, hands the empty can to help the man fill his sack, wishes him a good-day and steps onto the bus.