K and I basically spent the whole day downtown in the nasty-ass rain that was drowning New York two days ago while he was getting his colour film processed into negatives (which turned out amazing, as is to be expected from the enormity of his talent). At any rate, we peeped MUJI, which is now quite possibly my favourite place ever. Or at least for the next few minutes. So in addition to a sweet stainless steel business card holder which will be used to amp up my shameless self-promotion (when I recently met former Mayor Dinkins and a number of CEOs/politicians/etc. I realized how lame it was of me to not have a business card, considering what I’ve been doing since last September) I got myself a lovely new notebook. They had a gorgeous fountain pen that I was enamoured with as well…but it was $20. And my living-off-work-study black ass is far too broke to pay $20 for a pen. Anyway, the point is that I’ve been writing in that new notebook as I’d previously been writing in my old Moleskines – lewd thoughts, stream-of-consciousness stuff, memories and what have you. The contents of my first page are after the break if your interested.

“New Beginnings” (09/13/08 @ 2:22 AM)

A new book is always exciting – the crisp pages, the space waiting to be filled, the comforting repetition of equidistant lines page after page – and much like a new day or a new year, a new book offers a fresh start. There are new topics to be written on, new ideas to flesh out, new wells of emotion to tap. And despite the fact that even a new book cannot be completely new; for instance I will still intermittently gnaw on the edge of my pen or kiss my teeth disapprovingly at a work I’ll have to cross out – old habits cannot be barred from new experiences alas; even the familiarity of this ‘newness’ contributes to the sense of wonder. For while this paper may have been written on before and recycled, while this moment itself is in many ways a recycled product of older moments, the act of creasing a cover, filling a first page and smudging ink on my palm and the sides of my fingers is a reminder that life is as much about renewal as it is about endings, as much about new sentences as it is about fullstops and as much about learning to crawl as it is about straining to walk. While it is our lot to press on steadily in the page-turner that is the book of life with no ability to go back and re-read our favourite parts with the same wonder and lustre they once held, it is fitting and oftentimes fulfilling to know that there’s another shot to take, even if we would like a mulligan for the last one. And that simple truth is the essence of what makes something as innocuous as a new book to scribble in so pleasant, so daring and so (dare I say it?) poetic. God gives new opportunities regardless of what I did with the old ones and new pages despite what I scrawled on the last ones.

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