Going Back and Back and Back and...

I've decided one of the reasons I don't write very often here is because whenever I get an idea for a post, a thread of thought, a glimmer of something I could begin to be passionate about, I think that with all the blogs out there, it's probably already been covered--and much better than I could.
In the 70's when I was making my way through childhood, the fishbowl didn't seem so full. There were voices everywhere, but it didn't seem so hard to be heard if you wanted to. I know now that there were still plenty of sets of vocal chords out there, all trying to make their particular points of view known to the world but all I really have to go on is my perception then and it's as if the aquarium has suddenly become so crowded that not only can I make my little cry audible to the world, I can barely hear it myself. Some days I think I have no opinion or thought to begin with.
Then I begin to think about why many writers write--because the enjoy the process, or, if they don't enjoy it, they find that they have to just to feel alive. About ten years ago I set out to get an English degree because I thought it would make me a writer. Since I was in grade school I wanted to write and when I had to decide what to study in college it just felt natural to study English. People who know me might find that strange and say, "What about music? That's all you ever talk about!" I'd have to agree with them because there are a lot of things I'm passionate about and I've tried over and over again to get away from this insane dream of becoming a writer. But I always come back to it--not, actually, to the act of writing, but to the subject of writing and my becoming a writer. I know this doesn't make sense, but this is my blog and it doesn't have to.
The point is that I always come back and one day, I think, I will actually do it.

The Trolley Square Incident

As you've probably heard a pretty horrifying event took place here on Monday. I sat down to watch TV and instead of Heros, a local news special report was on. I instantly recognized Trolley Square, a mall downtown here in Salt Lake, from the helicopter shot on the screen. There were several SWAT officers hunkered down with their weapons as herds of people were escorted past the mall. I soon learned that, as I watched, someone was walking through the mall shooting people.
My first thought was that I was glad my family and I weren't there. We don't go downtown very often but we've gone to the movie theater at that mall and we've spent time nearby. I just can't imagine trying to protect my children from a gunman or seeing one of them shot.
My next thought, like a lot of others here in Utah, apparently, was, "I should go get my concealed weapons permit." Of course I won't, but I thought about it. Like I said, others are thinking about it, too: There's been a surge in the last couple of days in requests for the permits. I'm not an advocate for gun control, but I decided a long time ago that I'd never own a gun myself. For one thing, I get so mad in traffic that I'm sure I would pull it out and shoot someone on the road for cutting me off or not letting me in to traffic. My 29-year-old brother has his permit and he almost always carries his 9mm around with him. I guess it gives him some comfort but I couldn't do it. Then there are the kids. I would never forgive myself if they shot themselves or someone else because I had a gun around.

I don't like talking about gun control and I didn't want this to be about that but I heard another point from a gun control advocate that got me thinking: If there are several people there with guns out, who do you shoot? When I first heard the report that interrupted my TV show, they were saying there were two shooters. We found out later that one of them was an off-duty police officer. So that comment makes a lot of sense to me. One of these times someone's going to shoot the wrong person.

When I heard that the shooter was Bosnian, my mind began to race. I hoped it wasn't someone I knew. A few years ago, when we were managing apartments, I became friends with a Bosnian boy who'd be around the age of the shooter now. He was a very nice kid who liked to help around the complex. He even tried to teach me his native language. I got to know his family, too. They were ostracized from the other people in the complex who hailed from that area because of their ethnicity. I remember thinking how sad it was that those people were missing the chance to get to know this family. So I listened intently for the name of the shooter, hoping it wasn't Slobodon. It wasn't. I was relieved.

My heart goes out to the victims' families and to the family of the shooter. It's awful that these things happen.

Worst Case Scenario: Goolies

A friend of mine from work, Joe Borgenicht, has put together a very informative video that should help millions of people who suffer from being hit in the Goolies.
Watch it here.

A nice Suprise

At 4am I was having some kind of adventure dream--you know, where you're Indiana Jones or somebody like that and you're on the track of some hidden treasure and you're in your underwear...you don't have that kind of dream, do you? Well, anyway, in my dream this alarm sounded. I figured it signaled some kind of trap and I pressed on in my pursuit. Then the alarm became the ringing of a phone and I woke up. It was my neighbor calling to tell me he saw somebody drive by our houses half an hour earlier and vandalize our cars as they passed. His car hadn't been damaged but the window in mine was shattered. I asked him if he'd call the police and then I went back to bed. Strangely enough, I wasn't angry or even disappointed; just tired. Soon our bedroom was filled with flashing blue and red lights. I put on some clothes and went out to see three Sherriff's Cars in front of my house. I walked over to see the damage and found a fire extinguisher sitting comfortably in the front seat, covered with glass. The deputy took it to see if he could trace it but I don't have any hope of that turning up any results. So I don't even have a fire extinguisher that I could sell on Ebay or something.
It was pretty heavy duty, the kind you find in businesses, so it was probably stolen.
I still wasn't angry at all today about it, not like I was when my stereo was stolen. But when I began cleaning it up a while ago and cut my hands on the glass, that's when I started getting pissed. I keep thinking I'm going to get some kind of motion-sensing camera for surveilance but I never do. I can't even say I hope they enjoy whatever it is they took because they didn't take anything. Completely senseless.