A City of Observers

From the upper level of the Whole Foods Market at 6^th and Lamar one can see a piece of a city of lights. One can see the surrounding businesses with all of their signs lit up, drawing in capitalistic profit, waiting for their purpose to be realized, watching the street below in contempt. Some of the signs try to be flashy, using shock value to entice. Others try to be simple, discrete, allowing their nature to be demure and patience to get them through the boredom. And yet still others are simply there, neither enticing nor calm, lacking any kind of attitude that might increase profits or bring notoriety to their store. These are the worst; these are the ones that allow the eye to pass over easily, only to be drawn back because no information was gained with the first glance. They are cruel and meaningless, a trick of the eye meant to distract from the daily circus. These lights are a city of observers and are thereby meant to be observed.

The interior city of lights is much brighter, much more consistent in its luminescence. From the upper level one can see all of the supporting threads that hold up this canopy of light over the market below. This intermediate region, between the ceiling and the roof, is a city in and of itself; a city behind a city, lighting it up and making it possible. But this city’s height makes it impossible to attain, to interact with. It, too, is a city of observers and is thereby meant to be observed, but never reached.

The city of car lights is one that is constantly moving. It wraps around buildings and people, avoiding them at all costs. These lights are dynamic, ever changing, ever important. Even their colors signify something. Even the shape of the lights signifies the style and cost of the attached vehicle. These lights tell the story of their body. They glow when moving, some glow brighter when stopping, some glow when moving backward, some flash when turning, and some flash when in trouble. By simply making note of these lights and their behavior over time, one can say with a degree of certainty where the body has been and by which routes it got there. It may even be said that these lights are more important than the body they are attached to, but never more important than the body they protect, the body all of these lights are meant to interact with, but never directly. The city of car lights is one meant to protect and warn. It is only to be observed and never reached.

Man is the reason these lights exist. These silent cities of light are all tools and observers to the city of man that happens around them. They entice man, they help man, and they protect man. They do not, however, interact directly with man. This is of the utmost importance, for if they were to do so they would lose their ephemeral quality, and ironically, in order to do so, they would have to lose their ephemeral quality. For that reason, they will always be a city of observers, meant to be observed, but never reached.

From a Rooftop

Here at the edge of this building I am able to experience the distinct worlds that make up the city, but to really understand our surroundings one has to see every component of these different realms. I am able to perceive sights, sounds, and movements swirling around the various buildings and people I can see from my position at the edge. I am physically in this position, yet I feel a stronger connection to the experiences happening beyond it.

Straight ahead I see buildings starting to fill up with light as the sun goes down, giving  glimpse to the movement happening inside. A few like the large tower under construction remain unlit, and one can  only imagine the vitality it will gain once it is inhabited. In reality these views would seem static and dead if it wasn't for the people that inhabit it. People move in and out of the parking lot below and drive, walk or run to unknown destinations; each at their own pace. They become part of the rhythmic sound of the traffic on either side. 

The city exists through the motion its inhabitants create, and the constant interactions it creates. The path of an object's movement will cross the paths of  many others, thus crating the complex web where everything is connected.

moments of experience

I sit in a downtown cafe looking out the window watching the light fade
The music plays loud enough to hear-but not overwheling
I sit facing the window-my back turned to the commotion inside
A group of four sit to my left, a group of architects talking about their work
I drink a warm coffee-mainly because I felt obligated, since I plan to be here for a while
The darker it becomes-the more traffic starts to increase
people continue to walk by in front of me on the sidewalk

I see cars maving past-moving from one destination to the next
I am siting in a public place-a socoil gathering where we come for a moment
A group to my left talks business
I am physically segregated from the street-yet visually it is what attracts me
many people pass by on the sidewalk, looking into the window curiously
there is a connection between myself and those that pass by for a brief moment
the rest of my sense are consumed by this interior environment
the music, the coffee, conversations
I hear conversations of the people sitting around me-catching bits and pieces
The mood is relaxing
Lights on trees illuminate the sidewalk

P.O. Box

People are coming in and out, filing through the door, taking a number, and sorting with their hands. Everyone converges at this point, at this axis of communication, only to reach someone further away. A part of everyone belongs here, though. Hundreds of people claim one of the numbered boxes lining the single-faced wall. From here, there are invisible lines that connect people everywhere. Not just people, but points on a map. Specific addresses link one box to another, and routes are paved leading from this very spot. At the busiest time of day people are getting impatient. They see this clearly as a drop-off point and ignore the others while they wait to send out their postage. Everyone keeps it strictly business in this naturally casual environment.

Reading a Space

Halcyon Coffe/Bar/Lounge:

6:30pm: Halcyon is located in the warehouse district of downtown Austin on the corner of 4^th and Lavaca. In examining the nature of the space, I experienced mixed emotions. Maybe these emotions are partly altered do to the fact that I spilt hot tea on myself since I was uninformed how to operate the self-brewing mechanism of the hot tea kettle, but also in part to the “triality” of the interior space.

Description of the space is as follows: there is a long over-sized bar located along the back wall of the shop. Various bottles of liquor are house on cubical-like shelves, along with coffee brewing machines, and a few assorted fruits and pastries are housed around the register area. The “lounge space” is occupied by a variety of lime-green sofa chairs, bar stools, tall tables, and niches. There are large double-hung windows on each street façade, along with a garage door window facing Lavaca Street. The atmosphere is that of a modern coffee/ lounge geared toward the younger, social crowd.

The first half hour or so, the space seemed more public and attempted to invite people in from the streets, the lighting of the space was normal, well lit, but as the night proceeded the staff reduced the lighting eventually to candles. This simple gesture greatly altered how I, as an individual, experienced the space. It went from an open, “jamming” bar to an intimate social lounge.

During my hour and half tenure at Halcyon, I noticed a variety of people inhabiting the space. Three young business men sat in the lounge booth next to me and were in a heated conversation and debate on financing issues and the global market. A few couples sat at tables, whispering intimacies to one another, and a few people sat at the bar or were on their computer. A group of girls roasted marsh mellows in a booth in the corner and were constantly giggling and taking pictures. Furthermore, I noticed that most people were in groups or at least pairs, which arose the question of why so few singles in a place such as this?

My mixed emotions of the space derive out of the fact the shop attempts to be three things at once: a bar, a coffee shop, and a lounge. I have contrasting emotions about the shop because it can change in such a short period of time. Why can it not be a coffee shop with a lounge, or a bar with a lounge, etc. Where is the hierarchy? Some may argue that the multi-functionality of the space makes it successful; to me it was almost confusing. However, I eventually enjoyed my stay at Halcyon but it took a good hour for that enjoyment to settle in.

A walk through downtown

After my visit to Halcyon, I wondered around downtown, sometimes following groups of people heading to 6^th street, other times wondering solo, simply observing the city around me. This gave me time to digest the excerpts from Calvino’s Invisible Cities and make observations on the city of Austin and how I could relate the readings to personal experiences and observations. In Cities and the Sky I found it interesting in how Perinthia was laid out according to the axis and lines of certain constellations and heavens found in the sky. Likewise, I thought of the logic behind the organization of the city of Austin and how it has altered and changed overtime. It is also interesting to note as the city evolves, so do its inhabitants. In the next chapter, I found it interesting in how one perceives the city differently based on their location. From personal experience, I have viewed Austin from a variety of locations and each spot yields a different view of the city, thus a different perception. Throughout the reading, I found many ways to relate personal experiences to the examples found in the excerpt. From the tangled network of canals and streets in Esmeralda to the intersecting system of trails and roads in Austin, each section of the reading made me analyze and view the urbanity of the city in a different light.

The Hideout 7th and Congress Ave.

9:19pm: Although classified as a coffee shop much like Halcyon, The Hideout has a drastically different atmosphere. The space seems to be more individualistic. I say individualistic because there is only one couple in the shop, everyone else is reading, listing, and eating, etc. by themselves. The Hideout is what it is: A coffee shop. I felt comfortable as soon as I walked in. I kicked my feet up on a chair and listened to the live music playing, for I did not have to endure the loud, annoying speakers such as that at Halcyon. I often found myself pausing during my readings and writings to listen to the lyrics of the songs the two-man band was playing, and one caught my hear which was titled, “Show me Home.” This further enhanced my thought, for I began to analyze how one begins to call the city their home. “Home” is such an intimate and personal word and each individual has some inner reason of why a certain place is their home. It is interesting to observe how a conglomeration of impersonal, inanimate materials can be arranged to greatly alter ones experience, physically, psychologically, and spiritually until eventually they call the place their home. (Although one must keep in mind there is a wide range of scales when referring to “home,” i.e. Texas is my home, but not all of Texas, Austin is my home, but not all of Austin, my yellow house on Fruth Street is my home, but not the entire house. There are so many different levels and intimacies associated with the world “home!” In analyzing a topic such as this, it is crucial that the architect address and investigate the varying scales associated with each project.) Back to the topic at hand: However, one criticism that I have against The Hideout is that I wish there were more solo seating arrangements, but this criticism could be based on the nature and timing of my experience, for I do not know how the atmosphere of this coffee shop is during peak hours. Although located on Congress Avenue, my experience was calm and gratifying. I had little urge to ponder life passing by on the street; I was content with what was happening inside.

true story -- epoch

Windows are amazing: they let you see things that aren’t visible. Warmth, for example. You sit outside a coffee shop in the middle of January for a few hours looking at the spidery tree branches silhouetted against the faded indigo sky and watching the vapor from your breath mingle with the delicate curls of smoke unfurling from strangers’ cigarettes, and then you look inside and see all these cushy armchairs and couches and all these people lounging comfortably on them and this yellow light creeping up these rich, orange-y walls and you think, “damn, if I were in there, my feet wouldn’t be frozen.” But then, a perfect stranger asks why you and your friend are sitting all the way over there and invites you to come join his group, based off nothing more than a loose acquaintance – a friend of a friend of your friend – and now you can’t feel the cold anymore.

That’s sort of a lie: you’re still shivering, your feet are now not only frozen, but numb, and the loss of feeling is creeping up your legs, but it doesn’t matter as much anymore. These people – these complete strangers – are somehow inexplicably friends now. One asks you to sit next to her for warmth, not content until you actually rest your arm on her leg. One offers you a cigarette. One makes a necklace for you with tools he, for some reason, had in his car out of a bottle cap given to you by the only person you actually know here. They talk with you as equals, and laugh with you, and simply accept you without thinking twice. No consequences, no restraint, and somehow, you’re the newest member of their unspoken brotherhood.

This is why I love this place. Complete strangers, right? But you can share your life with them, knowing full well that in the long run, they really don’t care, but for that hour, that minute, that moment…well, maybe they do. Maybe it’s just the night. You know what I mean, right? Nighttime does funny things to people. You can talk about nothing but talk about it forever and have it be the kind of talk that you’ll remember for a long time as a good talk even though you’ll probably never remember what it was you actually talked about. Everything becomes more meaningful. But then again, maybe it’s not…maybe it’s just the city.

Austin is the kind of place where this sort of thing happens all the time. We are such an apathetic generation, but despite that, a stranger will sometimes open a door for you, or wish you a good night even though you had no money or food to give him, or stand on a sidewalk holding a sign that reads “FREE HUGS”. I’m the kind of person that smiles at people I don’t know, and it’s nice to know that I’m not the only one. It’s a sort of affirmation to the faith I have left in humanity.

Yeah, it’s freezing out here…but somehow inside doesn’t look so enticing anymore.

There is no one visiting loved ones today, the day is cold enough to chill bones in the grave. The only sound comes from the wind blowing through the trees and disturbing the fallen leaves, and all around all I can see are the trees, tombstones, and low income homes. I feel at peace in this place with those who have already found it, not because of their presence but rather by the environment that surrounds them. The murmor of the highway in the invisible distance is reminiscent of the motion of the ocean, which speaks its own peace in what lies beneath the turbulance. Some how the sound of peace for those put to rest beneath this east Austin earth has the same significance, except that it is limited by the harsh reality brought by a barb wired fence. Despite the sound of the wind and the highway, the scene still seems serene and silent, which is interupted slightly when a car passes by. Through the bare limbs I can make out the Austin skyline and new baseball stadium, and I'm brought back to my position in this east Austin neighborhood. The architecture of the cemetary is sparse, with only a brick utility building from the early 1800's and a number of classical looking mausoleums; but the numerous gravestones, varying in size, shape, and color, give the site a unique architectural character. The gravel roads wind around in figure eights, and are there more for maintainence rather than convenience of visitors, who would have to walk only an eighth of a mile from one end to the other, and realistically only half that distance since the entrance from Comal is at near center. The trees along the main, central, linear roadway are cut away to frame a view of the Texas capitol building, which is the only other building you could see in summer and spring. This place has an interesting quality because it is a site that is inhabitted by the dead but serves the living.

Reading in a Cold, Desolate Night

The night was getting considerably colder when I found a decent looking reading space. It was a type of space I have been wondering around for in the last hour and a half. A courtyard lodged deep into the concrete masses of downtown, a haven for the suffocated office workers. I had founded it on the 4^th Street, between Congress and Brazos. Biting into a hunger managing rice cake I bought from a nearby grocery store, I began a closer examination of the space. Annoying drone of the courtyard’s artificial light sounded increasingly depressing. My neck began to hurt as I looked up at the surrounding architectures, all ugly brick structures. Skinny naked trees and the dead concrete benches seemed as lonely as I was in the cold miserable night. Really just concerned about finishing the assignment before I caught a cold, I ignored all the dread of the site to read. I instantly remembered that I hated reading. The space had four benches, but not a single table. The sits were arranged in pairs around a dirty trash can. My body was curled uncomfortably into a letter “C.” My hands and face were stinging from the frigid air. I sat there holding the printouts, unable to focus.

I was on the third page when a man walked out from an adjacent building; it had an exit at the end of the long courtyard. Then, I heard a loud truck engine from another adjacent building, a multistory car garage; its wall facing the courtyard was perforated, so the sound streamed through unhindered. My head turned once more as a car from the street turned into a courtyard, apparently, a third of the space was a 30-minuate delivery parking. When I returned my attention to the paper, I found myself hopelessly lost. I found myself sitting on a dead concrete block, miserable, confused, and indifferent.

Ped Bridge

Helmet-clad and brandishing fleece mittens, a cyclist cuts through the frigid air with a smiling sanguine expression. Despite swerving to avoid a garbage-can feast and the constant tedium of work (the location to which he is currently commuting), he maintains an air of joy as he bypasses the congestion of the city. Innumerable convoys of traffic surge to his right on Lamar while a string of clacking graffiti billboards rumbles to his left. An isolation created by the pedestrian bridge spanning Town Lake near Lamar quells the vehicular chatter to a background noise. The space separating these circulatory paths allows for a removed presence despite overwhelming sensual bombardment. This separation space is enhanced by the great distance above the water and then up to the sky above. The wind rips and across the valley, whistling through the handrail, bench, and below the bridge registering the path’s height and removal to those perched in its grasp. The series of bridges spanning Town Lake when assessed from this standpoint are pinch-points for the inner-city traffic of Austin that become a source of repetitious beauty and a stimulus for societal interrogation. Cresting the pedestrian walkway, the individual elements become self-sufficient entities, sculpic objects isolated above the plane of the ever-undulating river.
This spatial relationship is noted and can be metered against the traffic on the water. Graceful rowboats and ducks are chess pieces below, traversing the slow water and pacing the eye as it explores what is both the intermediacy and heart of the city. After the overwhelming space and scale of the whole are accepted, appreciated and internalized, the immediacy of the pedestrian bridge itself and its presence on the larger identity of the waterway and city become apparent. A steady flow of bike and pedestrian traffic animates the bridge which vibrates publicly under each step, creating an environment that strives to engage people in the community of the place.

Ped Bridge

Helmet-clad and brandishing fleece mittens, a cyclist cuts through the frigid air with a smiling sanguine expression. Despite swerving to avoid a garbage-can feast and the constant tedium of work (the location to which he is currently commuting), he maintains an air of joy as he bypasses the congestion of the city. Innumerable convoys of traffic surge to his right on Lamar while a string of clacking graffiti billboards rumbles to his left. An isolation created by the pedestrian bridge spanning Town Lake near Lamar quells the vehicular chatter to a background noise. The space separating these circulatory paths allows for a removed presence despite overwhelming sensual bombardment. This separation space is enhanced by the great distance above the water and then up to the sky above. The wind rips and across the valley, whistling through the handrail, bench, and below the bridge registering the path’s height and removal to those perched in its grasp. The series of bridges spanning Town Lake when assessed from this standpoint are pinch-points for the inner-city traffic of Austin that become a source of repetitious beauty and a stimulus for societal interrogation. Cresting the pedestrian walkway, the individual elements become self-sufficient entities, sculpic objects isolated above the plane of the ever-undulating river.
This spatial relationship is noted and can be metered against the traffic on the water. Graceful rowboats and ducks are chess pieces below, traversing the slow water and pacing the eye as it explores what is both the intermediacy and heart of the city. After the overwhelming space and scale of the whole are accepted, appreciated and internalized, the immediacy of the pedestrian bridge itself and its presence on the larger identity of the waterway and city become apparent. A steady flow of bike and pedestrian traffic animates the bridge which vibrates publicly under each step, creating an environment that strives to engage people in the community of the place.

Reality, Fairytale & the Human Experience

Reality & Fairytale: the human experience sits somewhere in between, I think. The human thought process, particularly in spouts of internal dialogue, often dives off the flat earth of reality. Its not that we don’t realize what reality is, the perception of that is directly sensed, but on the inside we like to spice things up with a little ‘what if’. Internal dialogue is one’s personal narration of life, a silent, but often loud voice that announces feelings and thoughts inside which others on ‘the outside world’ will only ever experience in a suppressed degree. That flicker of a smile breaching the face of the internally amused is inwardly accompanied by hundreds of words or images an observer will never be privy to. This is for the most part because the ‘experiencer’ will never be able to translate that flight of fancy into the realities expected in the spoken world. In the outside world there is strong divide between the categories of fiction, and non-fiction (reality). A human being is expected to act and speak with the decorum of explicability, a salute to the rationalism so valued by the unromantic. But consider the names of these categories. Which name is derived from the other? The real human experience, the unspoken one, particularly when considering that of internal dialogue, can only be defined as a defiant mixture of fairytale and reality; the movements of the outside world and the ‘experiencer’s’ inward story. The narration takes reality that we know to be true and blends it with all significances we may store in the deepest pockets of our brain. This is how we live life, in-between the experiences of a moment, and a lifetime of past.

So what richness of experience could be found in the dialogues of a human-being? Or at least, say, one centered on an insignificant bridge; a structure unspectacular at its finest description? There must be, undeniably, some charm to the structure, some favorable, experiential aura it entails, or she wouldn’t have come here. She must enjoy some beauty on this contraption, where dirty city water trickles through crevasses of ratty concrete and stone, and where it does not, dams and swells, a putrid mixture of rotten leaves and sordid clay. Perhaps it is not so much the major appearances or flaws of the bridge that add appeal, but the minor details, the pattern of ripples from a pooling rapid, the curious wanderings of a moth in daylight, or the comments and gesticulations of the passersby who interrupt her musings: small things that spark some deep down memory or amusement. It is not just the scene itself, the reality that prompts delight here, but the past as well. Inside, her experience is a mixture of fairytale and reality.

She sits, unmoving except for her pen, half an hour on that stone bridge. The day is cold, and interruptions on this typically well traversed crossing are few and far between. What amuses her? It can hardly be said that nothing passes through her mind in this extended period of time. Instead she tells herself stories, embellishes the surroundings with happenings she is already quite familiar with: fairytales, memories. And so it happens, this space means more to her, something different to her than anyone else. Are these stories she tells herself true? Are they reality? Perhaps they are not, but they are in truth, what she experiences in this space, why this space means something to her. This interior dialogue, which she fruitlessly understates, separates, and incompetently interprets to the spoken word below, is flashes of her understanding in that time and place.

*In the outside world these flashes would consist merely of an amused smile, if not less.*

Three True Tales in Suspension from Reality.

an attempted translation of interior dialogue.

The Magic Creek of Troubles

She sits by that creek, on that stone bridge for half and hour. Half an hour, and it’s cold and hardly eventful. She thought this crossing, this bridge and intersection between nature and human existence would be the perfect place of exchange, but it seems not too many people use it in weather such as this. She looks up, but the sky is so white and cloudy she is almost blinded and is forced to look back down. Below her feet the dark murky waters are lethargic, their flow barely visible to the human eye. Dirt and slime on the oily surface obscure the view to its depths. Cynicism occurs. What craze prompted her to travel to this place which now seems ridiculous to like? She closes her eyes, and sighs at her stupidity, listening to the gentle trickle of a small waterfall, the call of birds she cannot see. And relaxation comes. Cynicisms and troubles are washed away. This is no ordinary creek. For in its waters dwells infused magic. Nymphs and fairies line its edges, embodying the branches who stretch out over the water, Narcissus trying to see his reflection. But the water is to dark to reflect well, as is the day. But she understands now, appreciates its darkness, for it is she, and many others who have contributed to make it so. The water flows clear and thin over the rapids, between the rocks she sits on, but as it pools over the waterfall, it thickens, darkens, tainted with the troubles it has selflessly washed away from those who sit in askance at its edges.

The Troll on top of the Bridge

A woman disrupts her ponderings as she approaches the incline of the bridge with trouble. “I seem to be looking and acting more and more like my grandmother everyday.” But she smiles, amused, as her troubles wash away, “Sorry to disturb your musings, but I’ll probably be back in fifteen minutes.” It’s not long before a man, too, comes to the bridge’s edge. “I keep passing you,” he mentions. “Yes, I’ve seen you twice already” the girl responds. “Well, have a good day.”

“You too,” she murmurs back. And it continues. Each person who passes the bridge keeps speaking to her, unprompted. ‘Strange,’ she thinks.

But then again maybe not so strange, for after all, this is her bridge. She, an evil troll starved of company for the last five thousand years, lies in wait of the unsuspecting passerby. There is no simple password however, no clever trick that will allow some to pass uneaten. Deep beneath this troll’s crusty surface there is a soft interior, a gentle spirit that longs for conversation, understanding, friendship. So it sits on top its bridge, in hope that the sensitive soul will realize this in passing. Luckily the man and woman did. The others get eaten.

The Moth and the Mountain

The troll goes into recession as a moth lands on the rock beside her. Its fluttering beige wings are perfectly suited to the rough limestone she’s been sitting on for quite some time now. She finds it hard to understand why something that can fly chooses to crawl around with no small amount of trouble. These rough outcroppings of rock must seem like mountains in comparison to its size. And then it is on her, a burden so tiny she cannot feel its impact upon her pants leg. But she has become the mountain, its landscape. It does not differentiate between her and the rock! If only there were more of its kind. She would be Gulliver in his travels, tied down by a minute people of moths, trapped by their multitudes of clever ropes. Then it comes to her. He is only the scout. In a voice so small a mountain such as herself cannot hear, he is silently calling droves of moth compatriots secretly hidden in the brush along the creek. He is calling. She sits and waits patiently for them to come. “Where is that lady?” she ponders. It had been more than fifteen minutes.

What my eyes see

Michael Nadel
Design IV
1/17/2008

Narrative

My gaze stretches on. Everything is visible. Every wisp of smoke, every shingle on every rooftop, every shining light. The sheer vastness is magnificent, but all the more melancholy. For no matter how far it goes, nor how bright it shines, it remains so obviously indistinct from every other city ever built. Its inhabitants may claim that this city is unique, that it has a soul, but these statements are nothing more than their own opinions, which are so vastly corrupted by the various brain-damaging substances in circulation on these streets. These people are now my peers, and the thought is disgusting. This is the public that scampers about beneath my feet, living out their lives. This great maze steers their movement, directs their feet, and draws them to their next mindless task. Do they even comprehend how these dense blocks control them so? Not likely, but supposing that they did the only difference that it would make is that they would remain controlled with knowledge of their own bondage. But here from this lofty vantage, this city's sins feel forgivable. It may not be special, but it is not unbearable. This Trude of sorts, just like every other Trude, is one and the same as every one of its analogs. The similarity is more than superficial; there is no gap between this city and the next. They may have been separate entities at one point but no longer remain so. And so I'm left here, a full hundred feet above the ground, to ponder what I'm to make of these surroundings. Is this compartmentalized room truly shaped with wisdom? Do the innumerable lights have a meaning? Does this framed view exist to show me some aspect of this concrete jungle that serves some divine purpose? Or could it be that I've simply given the subject more thought than it provokes.

My gaze stretches on.

The Lonely Square

The sun is setting and the trees are bare. Their leaves have fallen and cover the terraces of the stone amphitheater like dust that lies on shelves. Symphony Square sits silently, its stage and seating staring at one another over the stream that separates them. There is a bridge that connects the top terrace to the stage and the building that is perched behind it, the backdrop in the invisible performance. I am alone in the theater except for the two light boxes which stand stiff to my right and to my left; they look like people without limbs and big black box heads. Their spotlight eyes are fixed on the spot of the stage where my eyes look when I look up from my laptop. Every now and then a man will walk by along the creek that separates my side of the square from the stage’s. I’ve seen him a couple times now he doesn’t seem to notice me; as if I have blended into the stone steps I am sitting on. Behind me there is a restaurant which welcomes someone new every now and then; I hear their conversations as they pass behind me; they will be seated in front of a window that looks out on stone creekscape I am propped on. Behind the glass they can only watch me as I read and write; they see what I see but can’t feel what I feel—the wind, the cold, the leaves, the loneliness don’t touch them.
I move across the bridge to the stage side and sit against the ivy covered stone wall. The light boxes are fixed on me, their spotlight eyes focused in. On the top terrace of the far side a man walks up on his cell phone he faces me and gives me his subconscious attention. The stone terraces below him lose their depth a little from this side; their individual rises form one wall of stone and mortar. When I glance back the man turns and goes into the restaurant. Abandoned, the loneliness of this place returns. Forgotten, the two sides of the square have nothing better to do than return to the stare down. What happened to the symphony and why did it left its square to be forgotten. I wished it would return and fill up the seats of stone that were facing me, with moms and dads and kids with popcorn. Its song would echo over the water and off the stones jolting the square from its painful sleep. The restaurant would open its windows to hear the song; those inside would feel the breeze from the river; those outside would smell the warmth of its kitchen. Life could return and maybe it does, but not tonight.
I return to the side of the seats and remember my car is at the meter across the street that was to expire fifteen minutes before the meters went free. Instead of going I sit and finish reading in the dwindling light; the same homeless man wanders by again and a few more customers are seated behind the glass. I finish reading; stare at the stage again, and then leave. There is no ticket waiting for me—even the law has forgotten symphony square with no symphony.

The Cold Night at Flight Path Coffee House

My phone rings but I do not want answer it; it rings again and I got out of my bed and reach for it. I see that my friend Isabel is calling me. I finally answer; she says she want to have a coffee. I told her I didn’t know where to go so she said she was the Flight Path Coffee House. I got there and I see m many students working on school assignments. Although students make the vast majority of the guests, few business men stop by. When I arrive to the corner of 51 street and Duval, I can the full parking lot of the coffee house which is about 15 feet away from the place. Once I step into the space, I can only hear the low-tone music playing in the background. The wood floor and the low ceiling make the Flight Path makes me feel warmed and cozy. Right in the middle of the space, I see a little bar where guests can buy coffee, snacks and drinks. I buy my hot coffee and go to meet Isabel.
Once I seat down on one of the wood and metal legged chairs, I can see how most guests are working on their own computers; they seldom talk to each other. The place stays quite unless somebody comes through the entrance door. People tend to pace slowly inside the place because they do not want to bother others. The space has a moderate flow of guests, not too many people stay there at the same time; it is never full. The low-tone lighting inside the house gives the guests more privacy.
I look out the south glass door and I can see the wooden roofed backyard. The backyard is the hang out place for some students. It gets noisy once in a while but the noise barely comes into the indoor space. Students play games such as chess and checkers in the backyard. I somehow see the chess pieces moving by themselves. I scream out loud but Isabel wraps me by the hand and says you need to finish your architecture assignment. I look at the painting on the walls, they are quiet and sad which make the place scarier than what it is. I suddenly wake up.

Paces on a Path

Everyone has his own pace.
Some paces are fast, like the young athlete, almost desperate in his speed, reflecting a fast-paced life, one of competition. The tightness of a middle-aged woman’s stride reflects her frustration at work, the pain of running a needed outlet for her stress. An old man, wiry and fast, pushes himself with every step to maintain his rapid pace, the pace of a marathon runner, even as age begins to eat away his endurance. A young man, showing the weight of a few months of heavy eating and too little exercise, pants as he watches the ground in front of each step, willing his feet to cover miles. A group of five friends, dressed in puffy coats and jeans strolls down the path, chattering as their pace belies their status of visitors, here to experience Austin together. A girl in tight-fitting clothes passes, her pace that of the chronic runner, desperate to lose weight she doesn’t need to lose. An old woman in sweatpants and old running shoes. A young man in shorts and an old man in too-short shorts. A mom walking her dog, her pace relaxed and comfortable.
“Frida, stay off the path.”
Two friends coming from opposite directions, meet, exchange breathless greetings, and merge paths.
“Hace frio, no?”
“Si, muy frio!”
A group of guys jog in a close pack, discussing a movie as they keep an even, social pace.
“Antony, Cleopatra, Julius Ceaser…”
“Sparticus?”
“No, not Sparticus. Herod, I think Herod’s in it.”
Many paces. And I’m just sitting, watching.

Scratch notes

Footsteps

Through the catacombs of the Capitol, footsteps echo softly down the cold hallway. Congressmen diligently labor in their spacious offices behind heavy doors, yet only the footsteps remain audible down the cold hallway. An elevator cheerily announces its arrival in the distance to no one in particular. Down the cold hallway, the footsteps stop. The owner of the footsteps gazes out into a peculiar promenade overlooked by spacious offices filled with diligent Congressmen. The locked gate keeps the footsteps quiet as the man gazes into this peculiar promenade, this empty place, this forbidden place. The rough stone floor lit by the stars and lampposts invites his gaze, but not his footsteps.

Up the main stair the footsteps echo, into the night air, past the police officer guarding the diligent Congressmen laboring in their spacious offices behind heavy doors. Such a busy place has never been so dead.

Downtown Austin Library

I am in the Library in downtown Austin. I sit between the stacks of books facing Architecture adn resting on Drawing. The place is quiet so I can read without concentrating too hard, but while I read I still am aware of my surroundings through the sounds I hear. I heard books being opened and closed, carts moving, doors closing, but especially the muffled steps of people as they move around me. I am most aware of this particular sound because I that sound affects me most. I have become part of the place, an obstacle. I feel uncomfortable being in the way of people trying to find a book that might reside in my particular section so I end up only half reading the assignment; and when I finish, I leave.

The Warehouse District

I am sitting here at 4th and Lavaca in a place called Halcyon, drinking a cup of joe. Just eight years ago this spot contain another coffeeshop and bar called Ruta Maya. The difference between the two is quite amazing. Ruta Maya was a colorful place with colorful people. Any night of the week you could come here and find big burly bikers drinking coffee after their AA meetings or hippies smoking pot in the alley beside the building, or young people out drinking beer and listening to local bands. I spent many nights sitting on this porch people watching… watching unique people such as the spinning man who made you dizzy as he spinned on his homemade circular board, he was what you would called a human top. In contrast, Halcyon, which has been redesigned three times since it has been at this location, caters to the young professionals who are now calling downtown home. It no longer has that old Austin feel. Austin has moved on. Looking out over the urban landscape I noticed that a new club named Que has replaced the old gay club whose name has slipped my mind but luckily Oilcan Harry has survived. Further down the Frost building towers over the city. On the Northwest corner of the block a restaurant named Nighthawk used to stand. It was demolished and replaced with a parking lot which contains an ATM and one of those small taqueria trailers that you see popping up everywhere in parking lots. I decide to walk the warehouse district and absorb the changes. As I walked toward 2nd street I remembered that it once contained old dilapidated warehouses that housed small businesses looking for cheap rent. It is now replaced with mixed-use buildings containing restaurants, high end shops and apartments. If you close your eyes you almost feel you are at Newbury Street in Boston. Austin has moved on. Don't get me wrong – I like change, unlike some old Austinites. However, I wish that they had been more creative along this corridor and maybe they will be; new buildings are being built as I write. We can only wait and see as Austin moves on.

The Library and Microform

SEE:
Sitting in the second floor of the Library, my vision is blocked by the enormous “Microform Reader/Printer #7.” I don’t even know what microform is. However, it was the only available desk that also let me have a view of the main staircase. I doubt anyone will need to use this machine, or has needed to for the past 10 years. Most of the reading tables are along the edge of the building, by the windows, separated from the main circulation area in the center by shelves of books. Seeing as I didn’t really want to watch people read, I sat in the busiest part of the second floor, which unsurprisingly is not very “busy.”

There is a man sitting two tables away from me reading a magazine. He is very into this magazine. He looks about forty and is wearing casual pants that are too short and a sweatshirt. The desks we sit at are surrounded on three sides by book shelves, books and many filing cabinets that hold…what do they hold?

(I get out of my chair to look at the sign will small print on the filing cabinet)

MICROFORM!!! And on the titles of the drawers there are titles of magazines. So… using context clues, microforms are slides of magazines or newspaper? Is it like in the movies when detectives go scroll through those digitized old newspapers and always discover that the person they are looking for has actually been dead for 20 yeas, and their identity was stolen and so the person the detective is looking for really isn’t the person they are looking for? Anyway…

We are surrounded on three sides by bookshelves, books and many filing cabinets that hold microform. On the fourth side are the stairs, which every few minutes someone walks up. If I look across the stairs (around the Microform reader, of course), I can see two employees at a desk, under an enormous black sign with white letters that say REFERENCE. The security guard walks past me. So does a man in a Redskins wind breaker and a crocheted boat hat. I bet his wife made it for him. The magazine man gets up and walks down stairs, probably because there is a lot of noise.

HEAR:
This is not exactly the quietest library. The two desk workers are chatting away to a third librarian, probably about how awesome microform is. A rather enthusiastic typist is typing as loud as possible to my left, while on my right the elevator dings constantly and the well used door of the restroom bangs loudly as it closes. Behind me a man coughs, a woman’s cell phone goes off (twice), and a kid breathes oddly loud (He’s behind the shelves and I can still hear him. I wonder if he lost his inhaler.), and a girl’s chair squeaks loudly as she adjust positions, probably because her leg is asleep from sitting with it tucked under her.

FEEL:
I on the other hand, only feel the nice avocado green chair under me that probably came original with the microform machines. The tan laminate table top is smooth and cold with a surprisingly low amount of scratches/ graffiti. My Pilot Razor Point II is starting to hurt my hand, and every few lines I turn it in my hand to take a break from writing. My elbow sits on the table and I prop my chin in the palm of my hand. With my hand so close to my nose, I can smell the soap I used in the restroom before I sat down at the table.

SMELL:
The library looks like it should smell really dirty and old and like all of the early 80’s furnishings that are all laminate or green or brown. However, it smells fine. Nice even. Every once and a while I get a wif of my perfume I sprayed on this morning from a sample bottle I got for free when walking through Nordstrom. Or a wif of an unbathed fellow walking by that, I would bet, just parked his shopping cart by the side of the building. He had a bit of his previous meal still left in his beard.

TASTE:
I did not taste anything in the library. Eww. Gross.




Microform: noun- 1.any form, either film or paper, containing microreproductions. 2. An arrangement of images reduced in size, as on microfilm or microfiche.

The Edge of the City

In the search for a place I had never been, I traveled to the Capitol. I caught the first bus to arrive that I had never been on before, and this was number thirty. I soon discovered by the several turns that this was the beginning of the route. I watched out the window as first downtown went by and then the river. Now out of downtown, I watched the patterns of the city move by. Endless series of stores led to houses, which eventually led to the constant alternation between the two. I arrived at the end of the route at somewhere essentially unremarkable, Barton Creek Square. I had never been there, and still have never been inside, for the mall itself is just a mall. Other than the names of the stores it looks like the standard mall found everywhere. I instead focused on the parking lot, which was eerily quiet. I could see people hurrying to park, to walk in, to return to their cars, or to exit, but they were few and far between. I walked through the parking lot and eventually found the section labeled B-5. This is an entirely useless parking lot, so it was understandably deserted. It is isolated, and if enough people are at the mall to need to use it, it would be almost impossible to make the two immediate left turns required to enter with so much traffic.

This lot is interesting not for its uselessness in performing its primary function but for the strange serenity found in being isolated in the city. Car alarms can be heard from the other side of the mall, but the peaceful view from the edge of the parking lot is quite picturesque. The parking lot is on top of a hill which overlooks the mostly undisturbed hills of the surrounding landscape. Reading Calvino while overlooking some much less developed part of Texas is strange for me. I begin to realize that the city of Austin is as much about these distant reaches as it is about downtown. When in downtown, it is assumed that there will be large structures obscuring anything but city. People do not tend to want to live downtown because of the strong desire to see what was here before the city. I find that just as in Thekla, Austin is almost always under construction. While this mall is fairly isolated, in five or ten years the ability to see nature will be gone, and one will have to travel that much further to get there. And just as in Esmeralda, it will probably be a zigzagging obscure path to get there, much like the path of the bus I took to get here.

Momento of a memory.

I ask a man on the street outside of Cedar Street if they have WiFi, if I can use it, and if I can sit on the sidewalk. I feel like a newb when I realize this man is the valet, that Austin [apparently] has a wireless initiative, and that he cares less if I sit outside the place or not. 

It's freaking cold. It makes me want to vomit because my stomach cringes so hard. I feel bad for dragging my friend Omar along because 1. I lied and said this wouldn't take long, 2. I said it'd be fun, and 3. I might have promised food. Also, he's sporting shorts and an anaemic hoodie. I'm tucked inside an pea coat and jeans. He'll later catch pneumonia. I'll feel even worse and bring him a get well card.

I notice Qua across the street, a 25+ trendy new "lounge" with a shark tank. This place has a freaking shark tank. Please come pay too much for our cocktails. This breeding ground for cougars and sugar daddies is nestled in between Oil Can Harry's and Rain [2 of Austin's notorious gay bars]. I think this is funny and laugh. But Omar's busy squeezing the last bits of warmth out of his hoodie.

I'm irritated by Qua. I begin to get caught up in the ostentation, the shark tank, the waterfall, the 4 years between me and a martini that could buy me a fancy dinner. I check the studio blog. A fellow blogger mistook being checked-out as falling prey to an uncomfortable indoor people-watcher. Ryan, Halcyon is a mixed crowd. Sitting on the curb, I laugh more. After I read Josh Jow's blog, I stop laughing because I'm moved. 

Another valet shows up for work, looking like the male version of The Bride from Kill Bill. Yet I doubt he has the ability to massacre 88 members of an asian gang with his valeting abilities. I realize I know this assassin. I met him at a What-A-Burger a few months back. He hit on my friend. I guess the large piece of pepper stuck in his teeth was a deal breaker. 

I tell him why I'm sitting on a piece of limestone with my computer and an article in-hand that is beyond me. But he's distracted by my constituent's obvious malaise. Is he ok? Thankfully he can't remember my name either and we re-introduce ourselves. One of those awkward moments I thrive on. 

Qua vexes me. I feel like I've been discriminated against because of my age. 25 isn't the new drinking age, is it? I take note of the vaguely interesting front patio, open to the street. There's a pretty cool quasai-inglenook with a glass table for a fireplace [your cocktails, duh]. I've decided that the waterfall outside is actually the fountain of youth. That's why this place is reserved for "old" people. A river runs thru the lounge, covered with glass. How neat, right? Tomorrow I'll come to terms with my bitterness. The architecture of this place isn't so terrible. I'm actually intrigued. This weird age rule, like something out of Harry Potter [he should have used a bouncer instead of an age line, right??], creates this weird public/private dichotomy. This "lounge", a very public type of space, isn't actually public. Yet it's so inviting! I can see the entire space, from the street thru to the bathrooms. The first 3rd of the space is this awkward indoor/outdoor patio, using Art Nouveau openings to say it's special from the street, yet I want to sit in there and watch the city. Alas, the club's headmaster doesn't see fit that I, nor my young cohorts, enter. 

What an odd moment that exists here. This tense moment. A bar that's a haven for homosexuals next to a lounge that's a haven for 2o-somethings next to another gay haven next to another Austin hot spot. All of these places seek to distinguish themselves from other public places by common interest, making them less public. Yet their similar desire to be set apart brings them back together. And they line up. Why is this so intriguing? I am moved beyond my distaste for Qua because I stumbled upon this intense awkwardness. And I love it. I imagine the lines to get into the respective establishments becoming mixed. A sense of social vertigo. I can't wait to dance to some Britney. Who's that? My best girlfriend! ....is this the line for Qua...? 

My brain starts to hurt. I found architecture that deals with social interactions and what's ok in society and what's expected. Intrigued, but I'll file this moment and save it for a waisted conversation with my friends when we've had too much to drink. I haven't heard from Omar in awhile and I'm concerned.

I turn and can't find him. I remember Cedar Street's heating lamps. It's not much of a stretch to say that he's curled up like a small, hairy kitten beneath his new best friend. In the early dusk, my eyes catch several strands of stunning blue lights, wrapped around the courtyard's trees. This place, that my back had been lusting after for the last 45 minutes, is enchanting. Stairs lead me down, below street level. I feel safe, protected from the tension and realities of society across the street, like I entered a womb. Ivy vines dominate the west wall, chairs and tables speckle the cobblestone floor, and to the north is a stage that seems as appropriate as the wrinkles on my grandmother's face. The east wall is another bar that overlooks the courtyard. Despite some of the criticisms I've encountered, the Cedar Street courtyard before me is enchanting. And despite it's very public location, I feel like I discovered a piece of an oasis that's a forgotten memory. It must be the trees and the cobblestones and the setback from 4th street and the mesmerizing blue lights and how it's nestled into the land. This place is special to me at this moment. Pan's Labrynth enters my mind. But the magic exists here in the courtyard's ability to remove me from the cold terrain of the city, pulling me into it's bosom, but not fairy tale magic. Then I remember that this is a business, and the magic is gone. I'm pulled back to reality from my dreams of a mythical place where anything can happen. I still want to catch a show here. Maybe the Spazzmatics still play here, at least I hope.

I snap a polaroid before I lure Omar away from his temporary home beneath the heat lamps. We're late for volleyball try-outs. I hope he thaws before we get to the gym. Something in the low exposure of the film captures how I felt about that courtyard. We grab a cab and hurry to the Rec. These polaroids are a neat momento. 

Dan's The Man

After spending nearly an hour driving around Austin aimlessly, looking for the perfect location to set up shop [a place where an awkward girl could click away at her keyboard unnoticed amidst a hustle and bustle], I was still in need of a place outside of my comfort zone to read in and was starting to get hungry. I grabbed some reinforcement.. [Tiny Tim] and we departed in search of food. Unfortunately, we passed up the A+ buffet, which served, [all at once, as is the beauty of buffets] Mexican, Italian, hot pizza, Chinese, American, salad, Indian, and Greek. Tim didn’t seem interested.

After several trips through ghettoland and a failed attempt at gathering the courage to work inside a tattoo parlor, we ended up back at Dan’s Hamburgers, an oasis of fatty foods, outdated décor, and general sketchiness. We each splurged and ordered curly fries and shakes to go with our respective burgers [his certified angus beef, mine chicken] and sat in a “wooden” booth, the likes of which haven’t been produced since Charlie’s Angels were still a new commodity. We shared our evening with Couple A, 2 men, one with hair longer than mine, discussing comic books, and Couple B, a man and wife? possibly celebrating their 34th anniversary at the hot spot that is Dan’s. The food was perfect – the greasy, stereotypical burger, fries, and shake served in nondescript containers that I think I’ve secretly always longed to consume at least once in my life. The atmosphere was even better – everyone was pleasant but remained detached and uninterested. I was able to eavesdrop into a very serious conversation about the merits of Sin City while the twinkling lights of the Dan’s Hamburger sign outside mesmerized my inner child. All in all, it was one of the more perfect meals in recent history. It offered exactly what was expected, nothing more, nothing less and didn’t try to disguise itself in commercialized blandness. Bonus: the extra small, tightly wound curly fry hiding like buried treasure at the bottom of the fry basket.

In all honesty, the real reason it was so perfectly satisfying was bcause it felt like the sort of small town joint you find in the middle of nowhere, 12 hours into a road trip. It evoked the sensations of freedom and endless possibilities which accompany long trips in the car. For a few hours or days, you can pretend that nothing matters in your world, that nothing bad could ever happen, and no responsibilities hold you back. You just get in your car and go, and there is the possiblity that maybe, if you drive far enough, under enough stars and past enough Dan's Hamburgers, you might just find the person you're looking for.


Props to Dan and his 35 year old establishment and to this project for giving me an excuse to venture inside and eat food that took approximately five years off my life.

01-16-08 16:29 Texas Capitol Extension, E2, near west elevators

In one city, progress was valued above all; achievement and novelty, especially in the arts and crafts, set the population head and shoulders above its neighbors and predecessors. In the center of the city they have built a great monument, which was begun countless barbaric generations ago. Before even the original plan was realized, the children of the first inhabitants chose to expand it. Earth was moved, stone was quarried, and a greater circle was carved out in the city center. New boundaries were laid down, half again the size of the original.
The next generation in time grew wealthy, and chose to commemorate their new power by adding more wings and levels to the monument, subsuming an even wider circle of the city into their material, intellectual, and cultural progress. So followed every generation, adding more floors and chambers, adding more layers of gilding and ornament, reflecting the pinnacle of technological and artistic capabilities at that time, far ahead of anything imagined by those who came before. Faster than the old ideas could be carried to fruition, they were modernized, updated, and improved. For miles and miles around the monument was hailed as the paragon of human ability.
The workers prided themselves as being on the leading edge. As soon as a new expansion was announced, they would collect their belongings and move our from the center to the frontier of the monument, patching the unfinished work with whatever was quick and at hand, eager to progress from the old, conservative sections to the exciting new territories. Rooms were walled off, leaving no entrances. Walls were placed over window openings, windows over doors. Niches and hollows were plastered over to hide their incompleteness, and hallways vanished into formless darkness, their abortive destinations not even lit. Corridors were barricaded, precariously supported great ceilings blocked from view, and uneven, intricate floor patterns covered with quick, seamless concrete. Drains were plugged, stone was left rough, and working lights were forgotten. The builders knew nobody would see the inner chambers again.
They were old now, out of fashion. Streams of visitors ventured into the fantastical new construction sites, eager to be the first to experience the latest generation's genius. None ventured further, nobody was interested in the uninhabitable labyrinths abandoned for the sake of progress. So shoddily had they been planned out that there were no fixtures, no lights, and even rooms with no entrances.

Stonecold

They are remembered by their strings and their structures. Black, white, and gray strings strung all over the place. That is it. Others are remembered by their cranes and saw horses. Scaffolding, metal armatures, and wooden catwalks all over the place. That is it. We are remembered by our stones. Black, white, and gray stones all over the place. That is it.

I’m in a city where only “stones,” names, dates, and “achievements” are visible. A city where everyone is resting in peace with their stones as their only connection to the world.

Some people were wagon sellers, some were servants to man, some were servants to god, some where governors, some were head of the cheerleading squad, some were devoted spouses, some were in the military, some were generals. Some people were men, some were children, and some were women.
Some stones are small, some are big, some are thin, some are wide, some are curved, some are orthogonal, some are glossed, some are not glossed, some are withered, some are brand new, some are hiding and some stand tall.

I’ve traveled up the hill and down the hill, through the row of stones, over the creek, through the zigzag of stones, and this is all I know of those who inhabit this invisible city.

The grass was cut at the perfect level.

The intersecting lines of decumanus and the cardo were drawn and the rules of the foundation were laid down. The bushes were clipped, but not too clipped. The space was divided according to the houses of the zodiac and each stone was ensured the proper influence of the favoring constellations. The path was paved, but not too paved. The black, gray, white, and black-and-white strings were hung.

The creek flowed just enough to almost be real.

I want to know where the three-headed children are hiding. I want to know where hunchbacks and bearded women are. I want to know where the walls to the strings are. I want to be both the sailor and camel driver. I want to hear the fisherman tell his story for the hundredth time. But for some reason, everything is invisible except for the strings, the blueprints, and the stones.

1L Ride

Entering the vehicle, I escape the cold wind and outside chill and enter heated and stuffy air. Tripping up the steps, I slide my ID through the card reader, and the driver says, “Thank you.” With me sitting on the plush seats and leaning against the hard windows, the bus rolls along Congress. This bus is different from the normal metro buses. This bus has very soft seats with taller backs, and it seems newer. There is a little more leg room. I curl up on the seat and observe. In front, on top, near the ceiling, the screen flashes the time and destination. Many smells float along in the air: from the seats, the floor, trash, and the BO of the people on the bus, and that left behind from former passengers. There is a constant whirring of the engine and the wheels against the road. There is no sound from inside the bus except for the occasion "ding" to announce a stop has been requested and a man's voice announcing the next major stop. The doors open to let certain passengers off and let new ones on. A wave of cigarette stink roles by. One of the new passengers recognizes the driver. Conversation between the two punctuates the silence. Apparently, the driver used to drive a different route that the passenger used to take with his wife and three kids. He is now divorced, and the ex-wife has moved to California. The bus turns onto 11th and then onto Lavaca. The conversation continues as the bus rolls along. The constant rocking and jiggling of the bus induces me to sleep but also causes the beginning of a headache, evidence of my car sickness. With my eyes closed, trying to ignore the discomfort, I wait for my stop. One last stop, one last "ding" to announce a stop requested, and the bus pulls to a stop, and I take my leave, yelling, “Thank you,” over my shoulder.

Chuy's on a cold evening

I walk in, completely wrapped up in two layers of clothing, a jacket and a scarf, and I’m still freezing. I am greeted by a blast of warm air and loud conversation. I walk into a silver bust of Elvis Presley and a huge poster that says “Elvis lives”. In fact, tackiness rules the roost. The noise level matches the tackiness. Have you ever noticed how the tackier the place, the louder it is? Tackiness elicits loud, familiar conversation. A posh restaurant makes you want to behave yourself and somehow rise up to the level of the restaurant. You speak in hushed tones for fear of offending somebody.

The restaurant is very comfortable with its tackiness, with the plastic fish that adorns its walls, and its rather vivid colour combinations. In fact, the theme of the interior decoration is a cross between an aquarium and a tropical rainforest, both of which are dropped into a diner in the fifties devoted to an Elvis Presley cult. It has absolutely no pretensions to poshness. It’s tacky and it attracts people because of this. It’s a place to take friends and relatives who are visiting Austin, to give them a taste of the typical Austin flavor. The person behind me complains that his cab driver from the airport was terrible.

It’s only when a place is completely comfortable with tackiness that you know that it’s good and knows it. Moreover, it isn’t cheap. Tackiness is a value add and they work hard at maintaining it.

What is Tex Mex? It’s a made up cuisine meant to be served in restaurants. To most Americans, this is Mexican food. To Mexicans, it’s American. Neither claims it as their own. Both of them claim the other ought to claim it. The interior décor reflects this.

The adults come here for the margaritas, the kids for the colours. The place looks like a giant playpen. The margaritas too are different colours: peach and blood red and pale yellow. They match the walls.

Like Ersilia, there are invisible strings drawn across the room. The waiters serve the diners, the diners tip the waiters. The diners at a table are bound by strings of family, love, friendship; the waiters to each other by friendship and partnership. The waiters connect diners of different tables. Sometimes, waiters are connected to diners by friendship. Unlike Ersilia, the strings are complex, yet efficient. If they were inefficient, the restaurant would have closed down.

This is Chuy’s, an Austin landmark.

Hiding Out (The Hideout)

I suppose it may not make much sense to the casual wanderer, but the more one attempts to belong, the more alienation and separation wins the war.

No one tilts a head or chances a glance, for everyone is a stranger to their fellow citizens. A city of strangers waiting for their purpose to be unveiled and pleading for something to occur. So they venture forth to where the lights never dim and others are guaranteed to exist. Some came to feign socialization while others are hard at work – supposedly. Why here and not back in the privacy of their own?

With privacy comes the loneliness, the quiet, the stubborn underpinning. One could hear one's thoughts. Not here. A steady indistinguishable sound plays overhead, throbbing and begging to be noticed without giving any solid clues as to its identity. This is not a place for people. There are no personalities, histories, or individuals, merely forms of other humans that may or may not be alive. There are stereotypes and mysteries left unexplored.

There is the solid underlying emotion of fear. Quiet reigns and only a flipping of a page or the scratch of a pencil is heard. A cup is lifted, a sip taken, and the ceramic object is placed down again, as quietly as possible, the light clink an unmistakable reminder that others exist in this pretend stranger world.

No one wants company and comfort is fruitless. There exists that basic human need to belong, the desire to nestle in the cushy couch that might have come from some random grandmother's house and build a fort out of the pillows. But that simply would not be proper. They would stare, they would see you. By acting cold and solemn, you belong. They are each here almost begrudgingly. A cough is blasphemous language and hearty cheer is a most unwelcome distraction.

The muffled noises from outside mingle with the strange sounds that someone probably considered music, but it is no such thing. It too is simply background, there because it must exist, it belongs without notice, without an ounce more to its worth.

A wanderer comes in out of the cold, briefly surveying his surroundings without making eye contact. Every being in the place feels his gaze float over but no movement. No one takes a pause at his entrance as if it did not register ... but somehow his presence is accepted in order to complete this set of miserable strangers.

I wanted quiet.
I wanted space.
To get away.
To be apart.
But I needed more.

We are all here to complete a task, to avoid disturbance. Each other patron is annoyed that this is the only reason why we hide out in this little hole of a place. We share so much in common, we all want to escape, so we find ourselves grouped together in this awkward alliance of semi-silence.

Every now and then I shall glance out the window and see absolutely no change in the scene from the last glance. The ritual with the cup continues. Up, sip, down ... with a clink. Cars whiz by. Why should they stop? There must be something more promising one more mile down, just one more, they say.

A cough and a sneeze in the back, out of my line of sight. Someone clears his throat – how obnoxious. Jangling keys. Rhythmic tapping. A chair being moved. A man enters my peripheral vision – is he the wandering stranger? I cannot be sure; I never really saw him. I see the movement even though I am starring into my cup of coffee ... café mocha, my favorite. But somehow it is still lacking. I keep hoping to discover that perfect cup, but this is decent enough, for now. Movement and noise, how hideous. Clanking dishware. A mumbled conversation started. Silence no more. There was really none to begin with. There was never any to serve as a control, but I can still pretend that I once had it.

The mug is still warm, even after all this time. The coffee is satisfying but so guilty. It was a tool, a ruse. Four dollars, for this? No one comes here for the coffee. No one comes here just because they can.

We are all scared little beings, searching out the warmth and light: our primal needs. Motivated by fear we hate what exists but fear its absence even more. Internally I complain at the noise, but would pure, unadulterated silence drive me insane? So we stay, stranded in hiding, glancing out the windows to see if anyone will glance back – but no one ever does, no one ever will. And everyone knows this. No one wants to know. No one wants to be known.

What is he doing? Part of me wonders. But I do not turn my head. I do not really care. I fear a reprisal, I fear meeting his eye. They all know the fear, for they share it with me. We have at least that in common. We are so alike it scares us. We are not so unique, so weird. We're merely scared little children, latching onto the hope, the dream, that someday the silence will not engulf us all.

So quiet, so loud. Inner monologues have priority. Contact prohibited by that unknown rule – that is what this is. The unwritten connection between these many scared little souls who want nothing more to do with each other than share the space. This is a land of secrets of all that is unsaid but known deep down – the common human experience that no one acknowledges. Hiding here we don’t have to pretend so hard. Hiding here we don’t have to pretend to care. To lie is the greatest lesson that can be taught. To lie to one's self is the greatest accomplishment that can be achieved.

Say you're happy.
Say you like the song.
Say you agree.
Say you understand.

Smile a bit.
Nod your head hello.
Create that twinkle in your eye
And allow a girlish giggle to escape.

But dear goodness never admit its falseness, for then walls would crumble and weakness would be on display. Vulnerability would become apparent and emotions exposed. Do not burden strangers who want nothing to do with you. A girl sits not more than a yard away from me, but I have no idea what she looks like, what she is doing. She exists and that is information enough. No one wants to know. No one wants to be known.

Don't.
Tell yourself a little lie
And move on.

Filling Space, Time

Filling in the background a single color, slowly walking the aisles of far-too-many grocery stores buying far-too-many groceries, passing days with only foggy memories to speak of. A few of my own.

A man of early thirties sits with a pen at a table for two by himself. Hunched over, he draws or writes in a very atypical position. Keeping his cup of Progress coffee close, he seems oblivious to any movement within the small shop. An hour before closing and we exist as the only two in a usually busy place. I am told the forty-one degree weather in Texas is keeping most East-siders in tonight. The only presence I feel around me is the loud music that attempts to compensate for the lack of energy from both employees and customers. The Daily Special menu hasn't changed since my Tuesday visit and the air conditioning is slowly killing half of the hanging ivies. For the longest time I thought ivies were an impossible species to kill.

When he quickly moves to the outside porch, his rough beard and layered clothing are made apparent. Watching him from the window, I notice he starts to roll his own cigarettes. A man of little convenience. I wonder what kind of coffee he chose to order. 

My attention is drawn to the art pinned up on the CMU walls. A series of "Cycles Bigger than You" represented in the most precise and detailed craft, something that must have taken many hours, days. Each drawing profiled either people or nature in the most interesting of forms or fated of  scenarios. 

A second man walks through the door and orders a large coffee to go. The emotionless employee asks, "Would you like cream?" and his response is "Sure, I guess." He is out the door even before I can notice what he is wearing. He was young.

The first man stands from his chair outside, turns as if he has no destination, and leaves.

Shoal Creek

The park at next to Lamar sits in a valley between two steep hills. It's surrounded by the noise of the city, but the trees muffle that into a distant sound. It's a cold, cloudy day, and I sit down to read, feeling a little weird for sitting outside reading in the park, but mostly feeling cold and a little depressed by the weather.

The stories are interesting, although I find the cities a little oversimplified to make whatever point each story's getting at. What I find more interesting, though, is trying to figure out if these fictitious cities are based on real ones, and if so, which.

When I'm finished, I look around, trying to find some way to express the park. It's really a pretty simple place. There's a frisbee golf course with people playing their way through individually or in small groups, and there's a jogging path that a few truly dedicated people are using despite the weather. I'm sitting at a picnic table to read, but I can't imagine it's often used. This isn't much of a picnic spot.

The creek next to me, Shoal Creek according to a sign next to the jogging path, is not the nicest I've ever seen, but most of the park is that way. Dirt paths are overgrown with weeds, asphalt is cracked, and the concrete tables are worn. Oddly, the sense of neglect doesn't bother me. This place was originally built by human hands, but with the passage of time nature has stepped in to place it's own mark on it. Much like humans have so often taken nature and made it our own, here nature has taken the man-made for itself.

It's an oddly reassuring thought. We think of ourselves having complete control, and what of what we do as eternal. It's not. And with that deep philosophical thought, I figure I've got enough to write about. I'm cold, and it's time to head back to my apartment, which nature has not yet reclaimed and which has central heating.

Pedestrian bridge.

I imagine I am in something along the lines of that one scene in Garden State. You know, the one where the hipster friends swirl around in a blur of sycophantic rush while the lone protagonist sits calmly in the center of the storm contemplating life. How appropriate.
But in my town the hipster friends are the overweight. The old. The newlywed and the remainder of the chex mix at the bottom of the box that give this city a soul.
A runner in green passes by me.

It’s cold today. The kind of cold that makes you want to give the environment a good slap in the face, and run the heater in your car while idling in a parking lot. Ah, yes. Nature. The mother that is in vogue. I look at the trees that dot the edge of the river and assure myself that there are still pockets of green left in this overheating and already dying world. That is what they tell us. They ARE right, aren’t they? Aren’t they?? The tangents that my mind reaches to on that subject overwhelm me at this moment, and my eyes move on.

Someone has tagged ‘Ron Paul’ on the side of some decrepit railroad track spanning the river. Psh. Who does the guy think he is? I contemplate biking over there right now and spraying over the injustice.
A runner in green passes by me for the third time.

From the bridge the city seems dead today. The cranes sit on their perch above it all and wait for their life-giving masters, and the gray clouds loom above warning those those who dare come out.
Suddenly.
“OPTIMUS PRIME! PREPARE YOURSELF”
The crane on the taller of the two high rises under construction rips itself off its base and leaps towards another crane five buildings away. A battle ensues. Babies cry. People breathe. I blink. It’s over.

A bike rider stops just behind my field of vision. Don’t look. Don’t LOOK. I look. He lights a cigarette, and I start to berate him in my mind but quickly loose interest. Argh! I can’t concentrate on brooding while he is there. MOVE ON SIR! He passes, and I follow his path across the bridge and down the swirly-ly-ly-ly ramp on the other side of the river. Its fucking cold.

The cars are comforting in their regularity. Whoosh....whoosh. They traverse the span of the river so quickly and so purposeful. The clogs that run this leviathan click into place.

The silence is stifling. I scream. Where is everyone??
The city swells as its denizens participate in a collective intake of breath. Release.
And I, who sitting alone on a bench in the middle of a bridge above a sea of ice cold death, don’t feel so alone.
Me.
You.
We.
City, I love you.

A runner in green passes by me for the eighth time.

My Lake Austin 'Adventure'

As I boarded the bus, I felt a little uncomfortable, and anxious as to what to expect. I haven’t really been the Christopher Columbus types, and I wasn't quite ready to start today. Let's face it, sitting in a bus with no idea as to where I’m headed is not really my ideal way of spending a winter afternoon.

Reading is a part of each of our lives, and a critical one at that. Each one of us enjoys a different atmosphere while scanning through a book, which can vary from a loud public place to a rather quiet and tranquil setting. I ventured to search for a space that would be more on the quiet side, but would still keep me aware of the fact that there are other people around, much like the Quiet Study Lounge in Jester – it’s quiet inside, but you can sometimes hear students talking or laughing right outside the glass doors. My search took me down to Lake Austin, a place that I hadn’t visited until today, and after two trips down here, I think I have finally found my open air ‘Quiet Study Lounge’.

Lake Austin is a hot spot for joggers and bike riders, and it took me a while to find the kind of ‘secluded’ place I was looking for. The bike trail has a lot of people moving about it for most part of the day. It pretty much ends near the UT Rowing Center, where it curves upward towards the main street. Right at the curve, there’s an area, the size of the Goldsmith Courtyard, covered with short grass and dominated by two large trees. There’s a small picnic table installed about forty to fifty feet from the trail, and this seemed like a place where a person like me would like to read. As I approached the table, I realized that I was encroaching upon someone else’s territory; a family of swans inhabited this area, and they made sounds at me as if asking me leave. I tried not to come in their way. Once I reached the table, something very interesting caught my eye. Right next to it there were stone stairs leading down to a small wooden dock. My eyes lit up and I thought to myself “This place is perfect!”

Now that I’ve seated myself comfortably on the dock, it feels great! The water looks so inviting with the sun reflecting on its surface, in spite of the fact that it’s rather cold. I can see lots of trees across the lake, with houses poking out through the dense vegetation. The view is ideal for the cover of an Austin travel brochure. Even this small dock has trees growing on either side. No wonder I didn’t see it from the trail! These trees, the stairs behind me, and the lake, give this space a sense of seclusion, precisely what I was looking for. It feels private, and yet public. Closed, and yet open. As I flip through the pages of the book, I can hear the whooshing of cars on the traffic bridge not too far from here. The high speed sound, in a strange way, makes this place feel even more calm and serene than it already is. The slight crunching sound of stone being crushed by the people moving at the trail is giving me a sense of security, that I’m not alone, though I really can’t see anyone from down here. It’s as if I’m part of their activity, part of the city’s vibrancy, and yet in a world of my own, shielded from the chaos and noise.

There are ducks playing in the water not too far from me, and the swans have now become quiet, or maybe they’ve moved. The only sign of human activity is a canoe on the lake, but it’s pretty far from here. I really don’t know what these folks were thinking when they decided to canoe in this cold. Then again, they’re probably thinking the same about me.