As of yesterday I finally found a new name for my journal: Fleeting Imprints. I like it (for now) and there's no one else at The Diary Registry with that title.

You may have noticed that I've also rearranged the look a bit. I know, I know, just settle on a look already, at least for more than a week. What can I say? I'm a bit like my mom. She became infamous in the family for rearranging the living room furniture. She'd put the furniture in one configuration, declare that she was happy with it, then 4-5 months later us kids would come home from school to a completely new layout. Picturing Mom (a short, kinda heavy woman with asthma and born without the full use of her right arm) moving around heavy furniture all by her lonesome is really an incredible thought. Oh, sometimes she'd rearrange things on the weekend, or save some of the really difficult moves until one of us kids could help her (Dad was frequently overseas), but most of the time she did it herself. The five of us tended to get underfoot.

So I've become the same way with my journal. And since one week=two or three months in the internet world, I'm falling right into Mom's pattern. I'm considering doing a revamp of the whole site, but that'll have to wait until I get my home computer back. I'm counting the days (hopefully 10).

On Tuesday morning, at about 10:45 am, a lone gunman walked into the lobby of the North Valley Jewish Community Center (NVJCC) in Granada Hills, CA and opened fire with a 9 mm automatic weapon. Five people were injured, including three small children, but, miraculously, no one was killed and the most seriously injured, a 5-year-old boy, is recovering, though still on a respirator.

Yesterday morning, the perpetrator, a white-supremacist named Buford O'Neal Furrow Jr., gave himself up to FBI agents in Las Vegas, saying, "You're looking for me. I killed the kids in Los Angeles." He also confessed to killing a mail carrier in Chatsworth who was on his appointed rounds that morning.

Like most sane, compassionate people, I'm saddened and shocked when I hear about such seemingly arbitrary shootings. But this time...this time I'm almost overwhelmed by my feelings of sorrow and anger and fear. First of all, it wasn't a shooting of peers, like Columbine or many workplace shootings. It was a middle-aged man shooting at children. Small children. Why? Because "he wanted this to be a wakeup call to America to kill Jews." So why not start with the young ones, eh?

I think about his target, and wonder why he chose that particular day camp. I think about Dan, one of my bosses and my coffee buddy, and his son, who's currently attending a Jewish day camp in the Pasadena area, and I'm thankful Furrow didn't choose that one. I think about the parents, panicked, not knowing what's going on, praying that their children are ok. I sympathize with the father who broke through the police tape, knowing what a stupid thing he did, but also knowing full well that I could very likely do the same thing. And I think about what might have happened if something like this occurred 15 years ago.

As I mentioned yesterday, Granada Hills is fairly close to me, both geographically and emotionally. I graduated from Granada Hills High School in '84. Though there were a few things I didn't like about G.H.H.S., I gained some very good friends, some of whom I'm still in contact with. Two of them are still close friends, including my oldest and dearest friend in the universe, Jenn. I spent a good portion of my late teens-early twenties in that area. My first job was at a discount department store in Granada Hills. Jenn lived in Granada Hills for six or seven years, until the '94 Northridge earthquake destroyed her apartment building. And, in the mid-'80's, she did some work at the NVJCC.

If I remember correctly, she was either a receptionist or volunteer at the JCC (it's been a long time, bear with me). I know she enjoyed it, especially since she wanted to work with kids and this was a great way to start. I seem to remember that it was during the summer months, while it operated as a day camp. (Please, Jenn, if I'm wrong, feel free to correct me. You know how sieve-like my memory can be.) Granted, this was over ten years ago, but my brain super-imposes Tuesday's events on top of Jenn's JCC days, and won't shut-up: what if, what if, what if...

My parents recently moved to Granada Hills, though they're not close to the NVJCC. My mind turns over and over the fact that Furrow could have fled in the opposite direction and ended up in my parents' neighborhood, where my mom and pregnant sister were home alone on Tuesday morning. More what-ifs bouncing around, senseless for me to worry about, but I can't help it.

(Even the motel in Chatsworth that was staked out by police has some kind of attachment for me. I treated my second boyfriend to a night there, back when we both lived with our parents.)

I'm thankful Furrow turned himself into the authorities. I won't have to worry about him being loose in the Valley anymore. But I'm filled with such outrage towards him. I want, so desperately, to go up to him, ask him what kind of fucking monster is he, and pound him into a bloody messy pulp. I'm against the death penalty, but I would gladly toast his neo-Nazi ass myself. Imagine how I'd feel if any of the children had died, or if a loved one had been hurt.