I usually hate writing, which is weird because I guess my future employers are essentially paying me $160,000 a year (ha, right) to think and to write down my thoughts. As of late though, I’ve been finding an urge to write creatively. Maybe because I’m tired of writing about murder and federal kidnapping and children shooting each other in the eye with bows and arrows and throwing volcano kit chemicals in each others’ faces (can’t we play nice?), but more likely because it’s therapeutic. And because “art” (whatever that means) does help us understand not only the world around us, but who we are as people.
De novo is a semi-douchey Latin term that means “beginning again” or “afresh”. Like 95% of all the other Latin terms I know (except e pluribus unum), I learned this term in school. It’s pretty amazing how you can give something a semi-douchey-musty feel just by sprinkling some of this shit in your writing. (But it’s kind of like hot sauce, in that too much of it will give your reader diarrhea).
It’s fitting that my first feeble attempt to write anew be about Durham. I’ve always looked down upon Durham a little bit, partially because I’m an elitist California coastie. It’s easy for me to chuckle and guffaw to myself about how cute it is that Durham hasn’t really embraced the technological advance called a streetlight, and that things are open only around 8 pm or so. I was watching TV today, and there was some Colombian Spanish teacher saying that she moved from Colombia to North Carolina, and that she had been here for three years now! Holy crap. “I’m excited about Durham, said nobody.” Until now. I’ve been here for maybe half a year and my heart’s already pining for the sunny 70 degree palm-tree-lined shores of a land where there is only one season: summer.
But I figure, as long as I’m here, I might as well learn to love it right? Vanessa Yeh. 233 G-Chat Log 1 (Vanessa Yeh 2013). It’s a decently quaint place, and it does have a nice downtown area where you can pretend to be a sheriff walking down Main Street, surrounded on both sides by old brick tobacco warehouses that have been now converted into cozy lofts. (There’s actually a very sleazy saloon college Western themed sweat fest bar named Shooters, complete with mechanical bull and a dancing cage to get sloppy in. I’d totally live there if it wasn’t so damn far. Maybe 3L.) And who knows? Maybe in two and a half years, I’ll be on TV, talking about how excited that I’ve been for these three years too.