Today, I had my first of 3 days off from work, after 11 straight days of work. I let myself get up late; I went through my morning routine. It was cold, but the sun was shining, and despite my sense of pent up exhaustion, and despite temperatures in the 30s (F), I felt the need to leave my apartment by foot (not train). I had in mind, as a goal, the bookstore roughly 15 minutes away, by foot, from my apartment. I set out, and felt the wind at my back, to the extent that I forgot to stop at the bank for cash. I doubled back, 30 seconds later, and made the stop.

Seconds after I stepped in to the lobby, someone came in behind me.

"Everyone's waiting for you, Mike!"
"Roger that".
The man behind me speaking to the man in front at the ATM. 20 seconds passed, and more customers walked in.
"Stop acting like you're robbing the ATM, Mike!"
"Roger that".

Roger that. What was the relationship between the two; between captain and shipmate? The line moved as it always does, and I danced my way in and out. Who the captain was, and who the shipmate was, and their relation between each other, I'll never know.

I walked up Columbia Street the requisite ~10 minutes or so. I always have trouble finding the bookstore itself because there's a weird lack of uniformity, in this part of town, between commercial storefronts and apartment building entrances (not to mention live poultry slaughterhouses). But I'm walking up to the block where I know the store is located, and I can't see it. Today is Friday afternoon. I reach the block only to find that the bookstore is closed. I peer into the windows, past the aluminum security gate. Like a true millennial, I google the store on my phone, only to find that they are, in fact, closed on Fridays.

The sun is still shining, and I now feel a bizarre sense of relief. I can go anywhere I want; for the next 3 days, in fact. I'm no longer tied to browsing the mediocre yet convenient selection found here. I determinately walk to the right, crossing the highway over the causeway, and find myself in a baroque neighborhood that I know well (by association, not by socioeconomic pedigree). I slow my pace and enjoy the view as I walk past ridiculous million dollar town homes owned by members of New York City's elite far left. There's a bizarre sense of peace in this neighborhood. As if any manifestation of human ugliness would be immediately wiped out by some kind of quality control squad. Homeless man? Gone. Domestic dispute? Non-existent. Work-aday retail employee who lives in an adjacent neighborhood passing through? He was never here; remove all evidence.

As I walk, I find that the bookstore urge has not been quelled. I remember the cigarettes in my left pocket, and pull one out; I light. I have a general sense that the fundamentalist hipster bookstore on Smith Street is roughly a 10 minute walk from where I am, deeper and deeper into the American leftist utopia that I live in. I pull harder and walk faster. I tell myself in a clear internal voice that I'll go there with a blank conscience; I'll walk in as a newborn, with no preconceived politico-philosophical notions. Maybe I'll find something new and unexpected as my older brother always seems to when he surfs for new juice.

I'm feeling a little nauseous because I don't usually smoke this early in the day. It takes me longer to arrive at "Books Are Magic!" than I anticipated. I probably just am averse to New bookstores, versus Used, but the moment I walk in, I feel suffocated. Everywhere I look, there are little divots of paper stuck under titles that proclaim "Books Are Magic Approves!". My blood boils; I want to tear them down and say "I don't know if I approve! Stop telling me what to think!". I slounge around until I find the Sci-Fi section, which is predictably under-populated. No "Books Are Magic Approves!" cards are inserted under any titles here. I do my due diligence and notice a few Dick titles, one Lem, and also China Mieville's The City And The City. I feel somewhat vindicated in a small way, as in the sense of "I know my interests aren't welcome here, but I appreciate that you know that".

I circle around and accidentally find the Moleskine section. I'm reminded that I need a new notebook. Ever since college, I had enjoyed the experience of judging people who used these fancy, expensive journals. I was always a CVS as-cheap-as-possible notebook buyer. Just give me pure paper. But in the past few years, I had begun to realize the value of having a vessel in which to record thoughts that mirrors the beauty of one's own spirit. And so I've now learned to stop judgement and pay the extra money to acquire a notebook that's beautiful; a vessel that mirrors the beauty of the thoughts that have the potential to be logged within it.

I browse through the selection, and find the typical black journal I would buy. But next to it I find something else.

I browse the tables in the middle of the store aimlessly, vaguely hoping something my brother is into might pop out at me. Nothing does, and so I wait until the desk is free, and I walk up.

"How are you?"
"Good, thanks."

Something about a rewards program. No, but thank you.

The cashier looks at my journal.

"It's white!" His face is filled with an aura I have not seen in years. It's as if he's seeing the color for the first time. I begin to feel that I am, too.

"Yeah I know!" my language is characteristically brusk.

"I'm almost done with mine...and...it's so nice...I was thinking about colors..."

"Oh I know! I always buy black...but I was thinking..."

"...Just change it up..."

"Exactly..."

"Have a nice day."

White instead of black. A new beginning. As I walk out of the store, the sun hits my face again.