PickledCherub

I've been thinking a lot about West Texas and the ranch. I've been thinking about Anthropology as a meta-discipline. I've been thinking about living in a house with a sound-proofed basement. I've been thinking about how I react to love.

The ranch, with it's open spaces and the rolling hills and the neighbors with their healthy bounding dogs. Chaparral. Honky Tonk bars.

Anthropology with its insistence on field work and initiation. A discipline which takes extreme liberties in borrowing from other disciplines. A discipline which sees self-analysis as a cornerstone to impartiality.

A sound-proofed basement and the potential for recording, a space dedicated to music.

My inability to see anyone else as a prospect when I've had one chosen for me, it seems, by the universe and all of its interminable machinations. I can't think outside the box about love. And although I know my past actions well enough, I still see this crush in a fatalistic manner. I see it as tragically impossible. I also see it as one in a series of many tragically impossible crushes, all of which I've, to the greater extent, recovered from. So I'm taking the higher moral ground by insisting that I'd prefer it if I could cultivate a lasting friendship rather than a fleeting but passionate romance. Am I lying to myself? Perhaps. But there is more than one person involved, and I am, in this equation, less than half. It's all well and good to profess one's undying love, but it's also rather imposing to do so. To profess one's undying friendship, however, seems nobler and to some extent farther reaching.

I think I'm getting a sinus infection. I am not pleased. I have some homeopathic remedies now, but do those really ever work?

Two hours until I have to be at work. It's never enough time.