You may disregard the following, which is based on conjecture:
What school was the shooter transferred to?
Was his mother’s death natural?
Were all 30+ calls to police from his new house about him? (They said his living arrangement changed upon his mother’s death).
Where did he get the gas mask?
How did he hide his weapon and other paraphernalia?
I understand we don’t want to scapegoat groupings of people, but I heard someone being interviewed say “autistic.”
When did his mother die in comparison with when he turned 19?
Did the school assign him a counselor?
He seems to have been in special classes at the school, when he was expelled?
Did he live in a group home? (poorly subsidized, little staff training).
Was social services involved with him?
Did he have a record as a minor?
I’m just wondering if any of the tragedy (including his) reflects the nationwide cutting back of services to the developmentally disadvantaged (which VOR, a national non-profit volunteer organization. “speaking out for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities– http://www.vor.net is .)
I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.)
For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic.
Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again.
When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever.
I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...