I sit here now, typing one handed, the other hand around a crying baby who would prefer squirming and falling to her doom than sleep, drinking cherry coke reflecting on how far I have come. My boxes are strewn about filled with books, sheets, my music, amd my books of sheet music, while I wallow in my own remorse for the fact that, once again, I am forced to move back into my parents place from Missoula due to money issues... Last year about this time I was typing one handed crying, the other around a stigma of regret that inclined me to prefer squirming to my doom than sleep, drinking a cherry coke and reflecting on how the hell I got here. I had less boxes strewn about filled with text books, bed sheets, my music, and my textbooks of sheet music that I refused to go to bed for, while I wallowed in my own remorse that I am forced to leave Missoula for the first time, due to money issues.
This leads me to a conclusion. The proverbial "History repeats itself" slogan held by High school history teachers and twice devorcays (not too sure on the spelling there) is proved positive in the case of love and life. Once again I'm sitting amidst my failures and miseries... the smoldering pieces of a life set for greatness, but can only achieve mediocrity and blood loss with no gain. Once again I am left with only my closing door and my things. There's a difference this time however. I have more stuff. Another pearl that I have drug to the abyssal floor amidst the water monsters and angler fish and brought to ruin.
The people seem to increase by every monumental failure I achieve. The first one was just me. A near failure at school, a job that was floundering, and a personal failure of my own dealing with my own personal life of lust and self loathing. Then I drove the object of my lust into the hole with me the second time, getting her pregnant, marrying her on a spur of the moment, and starting our life of ruin, getting fired from a pizza place for leaving the back door open once when a half wit bastard operations manager waltzed in. Now, on to the most recent acquisition of post-cataclysmic rubble, My daughter was born into a world that has given her no chance and no hope monetarily. However, I look into my whole upbringing. My father was no older than I was when he had me and I guess by that time he was as desperate.
He had no "father figure" to speak of and well, I had a very present father figure with no reference to a father figure, so to sum up, that's an example of an example of no example. He had his own style of parenting that made me in a lot of ways the way that I am. He was a basic man for whom steak and potatoes were a bit flashy. He was honest to a fault and was always up front with me, especially when he was mad. I feared him and loved him all at once. It was his honesty that ultimately taught me everything that I know about interpersonal relationship. Now, I have only the shady outline of what he knew and what I learned form what he knew. But I digress
Back to history repeating itself. I'd like to propose that history repeats itself, but it repeats itself in a form of fractal geometry. Much like a figure repeating itself over and over, smaller and smaller into infinity, there is a point where the pattern of life creates the same pattern inside of itself. It gets so small that everything, to a final point, becomes blurry. History makes this evident in the events before the printing press. There is a definite schism in history before standardized printing that the pattern of history's fractal becomes clear. Everything after that is definite dates and definite locations, with people and places, until the present, the main picture revealed. Beyond the present is only an assumed pattern of what the past looks like.
The same holds true for human experience, the foundation of history in general. From the time you are born to the time you have your first memory, you have the same fractal. There is your first memory that acts as the printing press of your brain. It's always some intense memory, like falling down stairs or crying when a tooth gets slammed out of your head by the front door. The printing press starts the chronicles and annals of your own life until you are in the present and finding that your future is zoomed in on your past.
My father's printing press for his mind was growing up. He didn't have so much fun with 15 brothers and sisters. he learned to cope and to be simple and to be honest. The fractal continues with my cluelessness and my own experience.
So, finally, the world comes into focus, and I find myself in my own little fractal pattern of striving, failing and moving home to start again...
