Door handle
So, I got my door handle replaced this morning. I spent three hours walking around downtown Sevierville. I got coffee, then I went and browsed through the Salvation Army store where I saw my old Walter's State professor, Mr. Jessel.
Now, I don't recall thanking a teacher before. Well, besides for giving me extra credit or some form of saving my ass. But I got to thank him for what he taught me. Out of all the classes that I've ever had, I felt like his helped the most as a writer and as a thinker. Now, granted when he tried to remember my name, the first thing he conjured up was Michelle, but that wasn't the point. He said, 'I'm glad you enjoyed the class. Most people think I'm mean." I said "I didn't think you were mean I thought you were hilarious. It was sarcasm disguised as being mean." He said I got it. I felt really good after our encounter. Like I had finally resolved the mystery of Mr. Jessel.
I walked around some more. I went to the library and checked out Bob Dylan's book, Chronicles. I read a chapter before it was children's story time. Very good book. I love the way his writing flows, but then again I have always been partial to the Dylan flow. I walked back to the body shop, and my car door was in pieces. I figured it would be a while.
Went to the Common Good. They had a children's art exhibit upstairs. I wanted to buy every piece. The art was so bright and innocent. None of it was for sale. So I started to walk back, and then I noticed a small art gallery. Art gallery in Sevierville? I expected mountain scenes. And there were a few, but there were also a few musically inspired pieces I just stared at. My favorite was one in the back corner propped up against a wall. I was a watercolor of a fiddle player standing in the door way of a very old church. I don't know why I loved it so much. Maybe it was symbolic. I begged for a print. She didn't have one. She's supposed to call me if she has any made.
My dad had his schedule changed just so he could come visit me more in Nashville. I don't know why this affected me so much, but I kinda teared up a bit. Sometimes, I seriously think he hates my guts, and then he'll do something like that. What a strange relationship we have.
I'm in a state of indecision right now. I don't know if I hate this town, love it, or have just outgrown it. I'm leaning towards the latter. I appreciate the good qualities, but I don't think I can get any better if I stay here. I can't grow professionally. And it's hard for me to grow as an independent person with my family hovering over me. I'm so fucking torn. Actually, I don't think I am. I think I feel fine with myself over the fleeing of Sevier County, but various people try to make me feel bad about it. My mother with her pity face, the accusations of my grandmother and great-aunt that I'm too "high-fallutin", and other people who try to make me feel like shit for abandoning ship. But I have to. As a child, I never saw myself living here. I always saw myself in a city having new experiences everyday, seeing new people, and an open sea of opportunity.
Yesterday marked the one month countdown until my move back to Nashville. And I am ready.
Now, I don't recall thanking a teacher before. Well, besides for giving me extra credit or some form of saving my ass. But I got to thank him for what he taught me. Out of all the classes that I've ever had, I felt like his helped the most as a writer and as a thinker. Now, granted when he tried to remember my name, the first thing he conjured up was Michelle, but that wasn't the point. He said, 'I'm glad you enjoyed the class. Most people think I'm mean." I said "I didn't think you were mean I thought you were hilarious. It was sarcasm disguised as being mean." He said I got it. I felt really good after our encounter. Like I had finally resolved the mystery of Mr. Jessel.
I walked around some more. I went to the library and checked out Bob Dylan's book, Chronicles. I read a chapter before it was children's story time. Very good book. I love the way his writing flows, but then again I have always been partial to the Dylan flow. I walked back to the body shop, and my car door was in pieces. I figured it would be a while.
Went to the Common Good. They had a children's art exhibit upstairs. I wanted to buy every piece. The art was so bright and innocent. None of it was for sale. So I started to walk back, and then I noticed a small art gallery. Art gallery in Sevierville? I expected mountain scenes. And there were a few, but there were also a few musically inspired pieces I just stared at. My favorite was one in the back corner propped up against a wall. I was a watercolor of a fiddle player standing in the door way of a very old church. I don't know why I loved it so much. Maybe it was symbolic. I begged for a print. She didn't have one. She's supposed to call me if she has any made.
My dad had his schedule changed just so he could come visit me more in Nashville. I don't know why this affected me so much, but I kinda teared up a bit. Sometimes, I seriously think he hates my guts, and then he'll do something like that. What a strange relationship we have.
I'm in a state of indecision right now. I don't know if I hate this town, love it, or have just outgrown it. I'm leaning towards the latter. I appreciate the good qualities, but I don't think I can get any better if I stay here. I can't grow professionally. And it's hard for me to grow as an independent person with my family hovering over me. I'm so fucking torn. Actually, I don't think I am. I think I feel fine with myself over the fleeing of Sevier County, but various people try to make me feel bad about it. My mother with her pity face, the accusations of my grandmother and great-aunt that I'm too "high-fallutin", and other people who try to make me feel like shit for abandoning ship. But I have to. As a child, I never saw myself living here. I always saw myself in a city having new experiences everyday, seeing new people, and an open sea of opportunity.
Yesterday marked the one month countdown until my move back to Nashville. And I am ready.