It’s been seven dayfulls since I last wrote.
Even now the Vigils have passed, Saturday
night, “O come thou Dayspring!” Ike blew away
expectations – but brought Expectancy – the seer
of Fall, brushing crisp bluster ’bout our neckbones;

Pnuematic shower of Self-ishness¹, in not
seeing ourSelf² as as You see [Us], or as we should
see You. Leaving things unDone, things of
the not-Ought. Kingdom subject? I won’t be-
lieve/have like I am any for All. But are
[We] in Your [pl.] Imago.

Domine, Deus Meus!
In te, Domine, speravi!

I believe in the communion of the Saints,
together, rising with [as] the Dawn.³

It’s been nearly twentyfourhours since I last
slept longer than five minutes, and I can’t quite
figure out why. Today, while playing a stringed
instrument, I’ll appear a revenant. A Caribbean zombie
has the right idea – rising out of a grave and all –
but misses the Mark. I need regeneration
[physicallyinsleep, but that ain't the All of it].

I am notorious among my close friends for losing a variety of important items on a semi-regular basis, namely: my wallet, my cell phone, and car keys. Usually while frantically searching about for one [or all] of these things, I’ll make some sort of remark about how nice it would be if they all had some sort of chip installed in or on them so that I could easily track them from some sort of GPS device. Considering, that is, I don’t misplace the GPS device.

Among this troika of items the frequency at which I lose my keys is the highest. And keys are perhaps the most frustrating of the three to misplace because they are the most necessary to get from one place to the next in a car. I mean, I don’t need a phone to drive to the market, and, I suppose I could drive illegally without my wallet [it wouldn't be Right, but it would certainly be possible].

Even more frustrating is the moment when I actually do find my keys, since this is when my absent-mindedness is most illumined. Out of the many, many times I have misplaced them, the majority of times I’ve discovered them in a pocket of the very jeans I was wearing.

The location that second-most-oftly serves as a hiding place for my keys?

The refrigerator.

It’s a slow day at the office, which, today, is a Starbucks on Lower Greenville. I’d been occasioning a place named Crooked Tree in Uptown Dallas [a stuffy little area to be sure] for a few weeks near the beginning of my tenure as a freelancer, but quickly found myself unable to justify the cost of gas, and, the Americano purchase required to tap its faulty internet connection.

Here, linksys is always loyal, and the space is so large that I can easily slide into the corner by the window unseen by the baristas, and likewise unscathed by the rising price of caffeine.

Regardless of their juggernaut nature, I have always been keen on Starbucks’s branding and art direction. All of their pieces gently and maturely tread the balance of function-form to the point that one is nearly unidentifiable from the other [one of the goals of design, I think]. This is of course before mentioning how consistently well done is their color mixing, or the overall quality of the media used.

One of my favorite pieces currently in the store is a display for some of their fall line of coffee mugs and canisters. Hanging from a picnic table over near the counter is an ivory matte-canvas sheet, unpolluted by grunge textures, Gaussian blurs, or gradients. And all that marks its front is paragraph in one of my favorite [squatty] serif fonts of all, Nicholas Cochin, in what else besides a clean, contrasty black.

Cheers.

Among many unmentioned simple goods, one is while standing in checkout line at Whole Foods Market. It settles over me immediately after I’m asked that famous [and loaded] grocery-sack-question: “Is Paper fine?”

The content of my response is always the same, though occasionally I’ll draw it out in anticipation of a reaction.

“Oh, eh ……. I don’t … eh … neeeeeed any type of bag.”

The complete joy that falls over the face of every cashier to whom I’ve ever made this remark is enough to last for days and days on end.

+

Tonight, Cashier Rick did what I did not expect.

Creepily winking at me for my evocative response, he quickly followed the gesture with something I’d previously heard only baseball coaches yell.

“Atta boy, Mr. Shepherd!”

“Keep. That. Shit. UP!“

Of the few design blogs to which I subscribe, this one might just be my favorite, considering my sympathies for both aural and visual aesthetics [and where they meet].

Though still functionally in its beta stages, Sleevage is a location in the Interweb 2.0 whose purpose is to analyze the whole ethos of a pressed album of music, providing insight to the creative process particularly where the role of the musician and the print designer overlap.

Packaging itself has always been significant in regards to the music’s propensity to sell in stores [be it physical or otherwise] to reach the specific market of listeners within a particular genre. I tend to think this scenario is a little more intimate than simple marketing, though.

What has been interesting to me as a designer is the overall lack of information available on what particular steps are involved in the incarnation of an aural artist’s visual identity. Or, asked another way: “What is the best way to embody a unique Sound in Appearance?”¹ Additionally, “In what way [and to what extent] is this accomplished so that the integrity of either is not devalued, but instead, each serves as an Icon of the other.”

Achieving this cooperative synergy between the two mediums can be a complex task, but, when rightly executed, is also one of the most aesthetically impressive and functionally rewarding. Sleevage is one of the first [of which I am aware] in a coming line of subscription-based-content that rightly displays Value in this process.²

Watercolor and Pencil on canvas, 2005.

Design Studio: Debaser
Artist: Esao Andrews

[This artifact must have been left behind during Summer's fastpace. I wrote this on May 4, my first day in this then-New apartment, and discovered it only this morning – some four months later.]

I

Those familiar with the late house in which I lived [Ellsworth] might notice much of the same appearance here at Vickery. This new space is replete with arched passageways and ornate white garniture, and, much like Ellsworth, many of the windows have been long painted shut; a source of frustration for Fall-loving former roommates of mine. And at the turning of any knob in the apartment, one even pleasurably finds a faux-crystal ball in his or her grip.

That is not to say there aren’t a number of differences: the walls are not green, there is no couch, no television, and the space is smaller and better suited for a single domesticate like myself. I began this sort of comparative analysis early on; from the moment I first browsed the space with my landlord-to-be in early March I’d been attempting to imagine what it might look like to course my life within its walls.

When my old roommate, Austin, first entered Vickery the day after my move, he must have at least agreed.

“Ellsworth Junior!!!!”

Austin was himself giddy from having recently moved his Self [belongings, too] into a similar house-apartment-thing.

When he and I parted ways at the denouement of our time at Ellsworth, Austin relocated nearer the interstate into a more historic area of Dallas with our friend April. Today he had ridden his bike up for a visit, and it was only kosher that after having shown him my space I might too explore his.

II

After the quick little jot of a car ride ride, we pulled into his driveway, which, though it was new to him, was already familiar to me from the time last fall when I’d come to pick up April for trips to Matt’s Ranchero in Lakewood or its rightside neighbor Starbucks, where April and I have sat for wide blocks for the purpose of dialogue, an espresso campanas, and a Djarum Black [or two or three].¹

Austin now occupies the southernmost room of April’s two-bedroom space. It’s quicky assumed the title Live Oak D, and his presence there gives me now more than ever an excuse to visit.

When I with arrived with him that day, he took me on a tour of the 700[-some-odd] square feet, and immediately I could see where changes were already made. Austin’s signature was bold.

A Gentleman’s Quarterly sits proudly on the chairside table, which is remarkable because such literature is alien to this previously all-girls’ space. The chair it had been plopped was as new as Austin’s perspective, and its dark, oily leather glimmered when Dusk peeked through the curtains.

Other things marked Austin’s occupancy: A vibrant floral rug in the hallway, a ceramic owl on the mantle, a new record-player in the den. I noticed a few pieces of furniture which had been hoisted from Ellsworth’s rubble, and though they seemed foreign to anywhere but there, I was content to know that they had Place – besides the dumpster.

III

When all to see was seen at Live Oak D, Austin and I hopped in his Corolla and made the quick trip up to the Libertine, where our good friend and server, Jeanie, [I like to think] is always patiently waiting for our conversation.

Opening the creaky glass door, we heard a familiar screech.

“Booyyyyyyyys!”

In her 5-foot-nothing stature I welcomed an immeasurable comfort.

As soon as we sat down, Jeanie – in her intuitive genius – knew I’d moved stylistically from IPAs [if that doesn't make me sound a knurd, I'm unsure what would] for the beginning of the summer. Without me needing to ask, she strategically placed an icy, Summer Pilsener on the table at my front.

After a Thank-You-So-Much I grabbed the bottle to inspect it before the first sip, and scanned the label adhered to its front. It was an icon of Saint Arnold, patron-saint of hop-pickers. Understanding an icon [εἰκών] for what it is, I beheld Arnold in the sense of the qualifications involved in Sainthood.

Hastily, I thought that Arnold might not have much frowned upon my night; spending time within the [Vickerian and Live Oakian] monastery with the purpose only of being charged and equipped to enact the Missio Dei. For the end goal of a Saint is not to make the walls of the abbey pretty; All Creation waits and groans.

Many people travel to New York City to gaze at its crammed-in-grandeur, its burlesque brownstones, and big bronze statues [with good reason!], but I’m afraid very few people take much time during visits to really consider what truly composes a city: its People. And I only have grounds to assume such a thing because I myself have been guilty.

This time to Manhattan, I decided while on the plane [not unrelated: say "no" to Airtran] that I would abstain from photographs of buildings, monuments, and other things resulting from the handiwork of persons, and more of the very persons themselves. A city is its humans more than it is simply a place where they dwell.

My purpose here was to document¹ the vast variety of people and the socio-cultural interchange [and the noticeable proclivity towards individualism], hoping to show how each piece fits into a huge, complexly beautiful whole. What is obvious to me is that that whole still begs to be made Whole.

What is your job again?

Midtown East.

Recently, the City of New York has been shutting down Park Avenue from downtown all the way to 77th Street, allowing running, biking, or any other road-friendly activity to split the street without the fear of being hit by lunatic cabs.

Midtown East.

Outside the place people buy $6 Venti Lattes.

Midtown East.

Midtown East.

Kabob?

Midtown West.

This tiny couple was in the middle of a portrait shoot in New York Public Library Midtown. Caught them in the act.

Midtown East.

Occasionally, I’ll grow tired of the strap on me neck, so I’ll strap my camera across my torso, making me unable to manage anything besides shooting from the hip . This photograph is a result of said hasty tactic.

Midtown East.

Hometime.

West Village.

Naptime.

Union Square.

Trumpeteer.

Washington Square Park.

NYU Promotional Advertisement.

Washington Square Park.

Washington Square Park.

West Village.

Washington Square.

Washington Square Park.

Washington Square Park.

Washington Square Park.

SoHo.

West Village.

Washington Square Park.

SoHo.

SoHo.

SoHo.

West Village.

West Village.

Hudson River.

Hudson River.

I wasn’t completely sure what was going on, other than the fact that they were wearing some archaic military attire and yelling things in a megaphone. One guy had a Holy Bible in hand, and I heard “Exodus” quite a bit. Liberation Theology, mayhaps.

Union Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

Washington Square.

I have named Home on a few
Streets – many Lanes – Roads –
but never before a Boulevard.

I have thought
Least the matter where I was, Rothschild was!
Car-congestion like a yellow-green,
malleable phlegm I am
cutting through and squeezing by
on a teal motorbike in
a khaki propeller cap.

Thoughts have me
Where a woman with a peculiar black
poodle stands somber at the edge
of the Boulevard; a plastic white sack over her
hand, waiting, waiting, for the excrete;
The excreant ex-pat pillared, poignant
bewildered, traveling, pathless
pity. The meadow in the middle

Of the inverse ways to go
is where I lay on my grandmother’s quilt
wondering if I will ever be up
for making the choice.

This is not
a poem
not is This,

but I am to feel chop-
py as unkempt verse, squirmy-spattery
word, order
less express-
ing turmoil a tummy makes;
consciousness hardcopy, jumbled wiring. Harness
dolorous shoulderbones
to shatter
a Second time a Third
Summer, though this One
after-
Shocks
be much greater.

Grape juice on the textiles!
The loss of your dog

To a spinning ^Fe[ic]
machinery, grinder
of coffee beans all clogged
from the excess eluded
by substance. Abuse

The Leaving
for brownstones and burlesque coats,
bourgeoisie Pistoles and Puerto Ricans. A lot of people
remind: “understay your welcome!” Fear
that Barrio muse will hymn Her sweet molasses
Tune promising, promised, promises!

My Lust
for Place is no less than that; Man-
hattan is little
more than a park with a Great White
arch – I took a photograph of
a hard[l]y living man
playing a game of Chess, Who
I was.