The Language of Urban Spirits: Learning to Listen in Concrete Landscapes: Urban Animism 2

Last week, I caught myself apologizing to a parking meter.

Not the casual "sorry" you mutter when you bump into furniture. A full-on, heartfelt apology for calling it a "greedy metal bastard" after it ate my last gold coin without registering any time. The thing is, I meant it. Because in that moment of mechanical malfunction, I finally understood something that's been gnawing at me since I started this urban animism journey:

These spirits? They're not waiting for our enlightenment. They're already having conversations with each other, and we're just catching fragments on the wind.

A potato bundled up in colorful winter gear, stands on a city street, casually holding a handful of shiny gold coins after battling with a parking meter

In my previous post, I introduced urban animism—the idea that our cities pulse with the same spiritual energy as any ancient forest. You, beautiful readers, responded with your own stories of architectural weirdness: stairwells that eavesdrop and repeat back the odd word, intersections where reality gets thin, benches that double as therapists. Classic signs that there’s definitely something profound going on - though whether it's spiritual awakening or collective delusion remains wonderfully unclear.

Today, let's dive deeper into this particular mystery and explore how spirits of the constructed world communicate. Fair warning: once you start hearing this language, it’s very difficult to unhear. For me, once I started down this path it wasn’t really a gentle spiritual awakening. It's been more like developing synesthesia at forty—suddenly the world's speaking to you in colors and temperatures, and your friends think you've had a stroke.

A Note for the Already-Initiated

If you're already knee-deep in shamanism, animism, or just talking to trees regularly, you might recognize some of this. Urban animism isn't some revolutionary practice I've invented after too many lattes. It's ancient wisdom wearing city clothes. What's different is the landscape—and trust me, negotiating with a temperamental escalator requires a different approach than communing with an oak tree.

Also, while I keep banging on about cities (occupational hazard of having to stump up to the city a couple times a week for my day job), these practices work anywhere humans have thoroughly marked their territory. Suburban shopping centers, industrial parks, that weird strip of fast-food joints on the highway—they're all speaking, if we care to listen.

The Babel Fish Problem: When Buildings Start Making Sense

Urban spirits don't use words. Words are for creatures that (generally) experience time linearly and think traffic lights are just about traffic. These entities communicate in what I can only describe as experiential jazz—all improvisation, no sheet music.

Here's their repertoire:

Physical sensations: Not the gentle "energy shifts" your yoga teacher mentions, but very often full-body WTF moments. That elevator that suddenly feels like it's pressing on your chest. The stairwell where gravity gets weird (a really, really disturbing feeling when you don’t like stairs to begin with). The doorway that tastes like copper when you walk through it—even though you definitely weren't licking the air. Or the doorframe. Definitely not that.

I once felt a breeze straight down on top of my head while approaching a tree in a shopping mall. Not from the air conditioning. Not from a skylight. Just a perfect vertical column of moving air that existed for exactly three steps. The tree, I later learned, had been transplanted from a demolished park. Was it reaching out? Remembering? Or just being a tree with opinions it wanted to share?

Emotional resonance: Urban entities often seem to prefer the not-subtle approach to communication. Which tracks because there’s nothing subtle about a 10 storey office building. That corner where existential dread pools like standing water. The loading dock that triggers inexplicable memories or weighs heavy on your mood. The ATM vestibule that feels oddly comforting—or deeply unsettling, depending on its mood.

Here's the complexity: sometimes these emotional landscapes elicit personal responses, sometimes they're historical echoes, other times there's an entity that's evolved or taken up residence. Is that overwhelming sadness yours, or are you standing where they held the memorial service for a building collapse decades ago? Local history becomes crucial here. Try chatting with long-time residents at your local bowls club or pub—they often carry the memory of what a space used to be, and what happened there. That ‘ah-ha!’ moment when you hear an old memory that directly reflects an inexplicable emotion that came and went as you walked past a scruffy bench seat or street corner can be very gratifying!

Reality glitches: The patterns that shouldn't be patterns. I’m a visual-based person and tend to notice patterns in concrete or grass that may or may not be obvious to others. Sometimes it’s faces that I see. Does that sound familiar? Apparently there's a psychological reason, called pareidolia. In this case I would say the science is secondary, a materialist rush to classify and define the 'inexplicable', but that's a post for another time.

Other glitches might be the automatic door that opens three seconds before you reach it—but only for you. The patch of weeds that bends against the wind, or doesn't move at all when everything else is swaying.

These aren't malfunctions; they're communications. The question is: are you paying attention?

Moments of grace: Sometimes, urban spirits offer unexpected beauty or comfort. A few weeks ago, I was having an absolutely terrible day - emotionally raw and worn down after a crappy work week and a death in the family, feeling particularly tired, and getting a cold. On my way back to the car after work, I ducked into an old arcade building to escape both the rain that was coming in sideways, and my thoughts. The building—all Art Deco curves and worn marble floors—seemed to sigh around me as I entered.

A potato, sporting chic goggles and a beanie, stands assuredly in an Art Deco hall with a grand, detailed mosiac as its backdrop, combining charm with a touch of mystery.

As I stood dripping in the entryway, the quality of light changed. On the mezzanine floor above me lights switched on as the afternoon gloom deepened, casting golden light through a piece of artwork suspended from the ceiling far above. The illumination from above created a perfect spotlight on a small mosaic section of floor I'd never noticed before. The pattern—concentric circles in blue and gold—seemed to pulse slightly. For three minutes (yes, I timed it), I stood in unexpected warmth and light while rain continued outside. When the light shifted back to gray, I felt fundamentally better, as if the building had offered a moment of shelter more profound than mere physical protection. That communication wasn't about warnings or mysteries—it was simply presence meeting presence, an exchange of recognition that left both parties changed.

Dream invasion: Everything requires discernment, but this example in particular. Sometimes a dream about work is just your subconscious processing that passive-aggressive email from Barry in accounting. But when the same intersection keeps appearing in your dreams, populated by strangers who somehow know your childhood nickname? When you wake up with detailed knowledge of a building's layout you've never entered? That's not your brain filing memories—that's real estate with something to say. This happened to me once: I dreamt repeatedly of navigating specific corridors in a building I'd never visited. Months later, I found myself in that exact building and was able to find rooms without directions, following the layout I didn’t actually know. It was only after several minutes of this uncanny navigation that I realized what I was doing, and I felt a profound sense of connection to where I was.

The Pub That Hates Success: A Case Study in Architectural Standards

Let me tell you about this pub that's been my personal koan for twenty years.

Perfect corner location, busy intersection. Surrounded by thriving businesses, ample parking, even a Pizza Hut that somehow survives despite being, well, Pizza Hut. The building itself is gorgeous—well-maintained and tasteful  ye olde English farmhouse look,  easy access, the kind of character that should draw crowds.

In two decades, the building has changed hands at least a dozen times and hosted: five different pubs, three restaurants, a café that lasted exactly 17 days, and briefly—inexplicably—a "boutique accommodation experience" (translation: overpriced rooms above an perpetually empty bar).

Every. Single. Business. Fails.

Not just closes—withers. Half decent chefs that suddenly decided to be mediocre.  Experienced bartenders who quit after a week. Marketing campaigns attract exactly zero customers. The place remains pristine, empty, and somehow radiates an air of resigned indifference.

Last month, I asked a chef friend about it—someone who'd grown up here and knew every pub in town. First words out of their mouth: "That site's cursed. Not metaphorically. Literally cursed."

But is it? I'm not convinced of that. Maybe it’s been a shit run of luck for all the owners, or just uninspired business choices. I can’t believe that though. Twenty years is a long time to fail.  Maybe—and this is where urban animism gets really interesting—it's not the building at all, or a curse, but the land beneath it. Does the land itself have a history? Or maybe a genius loci not inclined to visitors?

The surrounding area seems fine. Pizza Hut thrives (somehow). Other businesses flourish. So what's the deal with this particular spot? Is it architecturally particular? Energetically selective? Or just profoundly unimpressed with our modern interpretations of hospitality?

This is urban animism in practice: accepting that sometimes places have preferences we may never fully understand.

Learning the Language: A Practical Guide to Urban Spirit Communication

Ready to start hearing the city's whispers? Here are three approaches that have consistently yielded results (and occasional public embarrassment):

The Full Sensory Inventory

Choose a location that calls to you—it doesn’t have to be pleasant, trending, or noteworthy. Just a spot that calls to you. Often it's these spots that will have the most to say. For example, that corner where time feels thick; the stairwell that smells like memories; or the underpass that makes your teeth feel strange.

Spend 15 minutes there. Yes, people might look at you oddly. Set a timer—your brain will insist it's been hours.

Systematically document:

• What you see (including what your eyes keep trying to skip)

• What you hear (the obvious sounds, but also what's between them)

• What you feel physically (temperature gradients, pressure changes, unexplained sensations)

• What you smell or taste (often revealing in liminal spaces)

• What emotions arise (distinguishing between your feelings about the space and the space's own emotional signature)

Return at different times—morning, evening, different weather, different days. Look for patterns that persist regardless of external conditions. These consistencies often form the vocabulary of a place's communication.

The Threshold Acknowledgment Practice

This simple practice can help your mind jump out of its normal track, just like running past Dad’s old LP player:

Begin acknowledging every threshold you cross. Every. Single. One.

"Good morning, front door." "Thank you, elevator." "Hello, office entrance."

The key isn't the specific words but the moment of conscious recognition. You're establishing a protocol of mutual awareness. Doorways have deep symbolic meaning, and they’re also liminal. As you say your greeting, try and feel your way through the door. Extend your senses and see what they rub up against.

Most spaces will initially seem indifferent. And not every space has a resident spirit. Or maybe they do? Imagine that - a city crammed as full of spirits as of people. Some spaces  might feel surprised—that slight shift in atmosphere when something realizes it's being seen. A few will respond with what can only be described as architectural delight.

Dream Dialogue

Before sleep, bring a specific urban location to mind. Not casually, but with focused intention. Visualize it in detail: textures, sounds, the quality of light, the feeling of being there.

A sleeping potato dressed in goggles and a beanie rests on a park bench under the glow of the moon, embodying a whimsical moment of solitude.

As you drift toward sleep, pose a question. "What are you?" often works. "What do you need?" can yield surprising answers. For particularly challenging spaces, "Why are you like this?" sometimes breaks through.  That last one is asked a lot in my house, especially when the dogs are misbehaving.

Keep a journal by your bed. Dreams featuring that location will often have a different quality—more observational than participatory, as if you're being shown rather than creating.

The Ethics of Listening

As we develop these sensitivities, certain ethical considerations become paramount. The main frame of reference I use is, ‘don’t be a dick’. Like more traditional spirit contact, or interacting with people, don’t be painful or disrespectful. Here are some examples of what I mean:

Consent matters: Not all spirits-in-place want engagement. Some buildings prefer their privacy or just don’t care. Learning to recognize and respect these boundaries is crucial.

Honor the layers: Urban spaces are palimpsests (or like an onion if you’re a Shrek fan)—layers upon layers of history, use, and meaning. The parking garage might sit atop an old creek bed, which rests on indigenous sacred ground, which covers something older still. Acknowledge the full stack.

Cultural context is key: As an Australian, I'm acutely aware that every "urban" space I encounter exists on land with deep, pre-colonial spiritual significance and the traditional custodians of the land have a profound connection with the spirit of place. The spirits I perceive feel like recent arrivals compared to the ancient presences that indigenous peoples have known for millennia. This awareness should inform our practice with humility.

Mystery has value: Not every communication needs to be fully understood. Some messages remain cryptic despite our best efforts. This isn't failure—it's relationship. Like human connections, spiritual relationships thrive on a balance of understanding and mystery.

Living with Open Ears

Here's my truth about urban animism: once you start perceiving these communications, the off switch becomes difficult to find. The city becomes a constant conversation partner, for better or worse.

Every street corner holds stories. I still apologize to that parking meter. We've developed an understanding: I feed it coins, it occasionally cooperates, and we both maintain the polite fiction that this is normal behavior. Because in the language of urban spirits, sometimes normal is just another word for "finally paying attention."

Before I go…

I've written about these experiences with humor and a light touch, but don't mistake my tone for dismissiveness. These encounters with urban spirits have been genuinely profound for me—sometimes unsettling, occasionally transformative, often deeply moving. I use humor partly as a bridge, inviting those who might otherwise dismiss these ideas to consider them without immediate rejection. And if I’m honest, the host of spirits I’m encountering in urban spaces is still not a comfortable space for me - it’s still new, and in some ways, runs counter to ‘proper’ animism. Whatever that is. But beneath the jokes about argumentative parking meters and sociopathic buildings lies a sincere invitation to see our constructed world as ensouled, to recognize the sacred in what we've created. These experiences have fundamentally changed how I move through cities, transforming ordinary commutes into conversations and elevating mundane spaces into sites of potential wonder.

Next time: "Reciprocity in the City: Building Relationships with Urban Spirits." Until then, try acknowledging your front door. See what happens. The results might surprise you.

What urban spirits have been trying to get your attention? What's the strangest "coincidence" you've experienced in the city? Share your stories below—I'm collecting evidence that I'm not the only one having these conversations.