Apparently, you can automatically post from your dreamwidth into your livejournal... which would make going back and forth between reading pages pretty easy. Maybe I'm the last one in the world to realize, but I want to try it - it might encourage me to post a little bit more.... or at the very least make my daily site flipping routine a little simpler. NaNoWriMo is starting, after all, and my brain is flooding, so figuring out the old journal situation would be helpful. Anyway, this is a test. See ya soon!

Hey Lyla,

So, I found out what you did today. It was kind of funny – Chris just out and mentioned it, offhand, like we were all supposed to have known. Once the words were out of her mouth I produced this weird kind of gasping noise, and the girl next to me gave me a look because she thought it was a chuckle. It would be weird to laugh at someone’s death but, even in the moment, I kind of wanted to. You’re the first young person I really knew well who died before I did. It seemed ridiculous. When Chris realized that there was gasping, and that perhaps not everyone knew that you’d been gone for five months now, she apologized. She said we shouldn’t have had to find out that way. It seemed kind of right, though, because you were always a sort of blunt person, weren’t you? You wouldn’t have tip-toed around it.

It was weird to have someone else’s life flash before my eyes – or my own memory of someone else’s life, anyway. I remember the time we met. Frankly, it’s not one of my fondest memories. You walked in on me in the bathroom behind the art studio – the awkward one with two stalls and no doors. I was new and didn’t realize there were two entrances to lock. Instead of leaving when you realized the bathroom was occupied, you just carried on a conversation with me. You introduced yourself while my pants were at my ankles… but you made it seem so normal. So what was I supposed to do? I carried on like it was normal – finished up, washed my hands, kept talking and then… midway through our conversation, maybe even mid-sentence, as I remember it, you gave me a look, cleared your throat, and asked if I minded leaving, because you had to pee. It was one of the strangest interactions I’d ever had with another human being in my life. I don’t know if I’d be able to pull the first time I met absolutely everyone out and isolate it like I did with this, uh, unique incident. I think that was the day I decided you were a weirdo.

Yeah, I know that’s kind of harsh to say now that you’re dead – they say that once a person dies, their faults die with them. Every teenager in a body bag becomes a saint, right? I don’t think I’d be able to think about you without thinking about how weird you were, though. Most people might say unique, but unique implies something else in my mind. You didn’t have any kind of flashy fashion sense, or purple eyes, or an accent nobody could place. Those would have made you unique. You were just… the kind of person who introduces herself to you while you’re on the toilet. You made up a new deadly allergy every day. You continued to bring roller blades to camp constantly, even though you were not allowed to roller blade there. There wouldn’t be Lyla without the weirdness, and I wouldn’t feel like I was remembering you correctly if I chose to think about you without it.

Maybe that weirdness has a slightly negative connotation. I think this would be a good time to confess to you that I was the one who got you kicked out of the art room. Weirdness and art often go hand in hand, but weirdness and hammers don’t. I mean, come on, Lyla, you told a seven year old boy that he could swing a hammer at tile without wearing safety goggles! I was absolutely livid. Sometimes it was like when you walked into the room, the four horsemen of the apocalypse followed you. I should probably apologize to you for lying about your art room ban – but you should probably have apologized to that boy for almost blinding him for life. I think it’s too late now, so we can just call it even.

The weirdness had its good sides, too. I think the way I’ll always remember you, bathroom escapades aside, is as the Fiji Mermaid. Ken and I came up with the Fiji Mermaid off of the record, not even realizing that it would be a fun way to torture you. When it was clear that you were free on Special Events Friday and there still wasn’t a Fiji Mermaid cast for our Pirate Haunted House adventure, we knew you’d be perfect. I’ll never forget the look on your face when we asked you, the big to-do of getting you dressed up and set up, and your little skippy dance when you were finally free to use your legs again. How could we not reprise the Fiji Mermaid costume again later that summer? You probably don’t know this, but Ken and I never stopped talking about the Fiji Mermaid – not even for a minute. We thought it would be fun to have a Fiji Mermaid day for no reason at all. We were going to ask you to dress up as the mermaid for the carnival, but didn’t want to torture you on the last day of camp. You made us smile, and the kids loved you. Before you blame us, don’t forget that the Bikini top was all your idea. As long as I knew you, you never stopped flirting. I’m glad you weren’t allergic to the face paint. They fired Ken, by the way. As much fun as he was to conspire with, I’m kind of glad, in a funny way. Nobody else could do The Mermaid justice, and Ken has an obsessive personality.

The idea of you being gone doesn’t really make sense to me, because even during the year, when I was in another state completely, I thought about you from time to time. I sometimes forgot how much younger you were than me, like you were my annoying little sister. I was definitely fond of you, in this kind of nonsensical way. You weren’t like the other girls – which was good, because the other girls are boring. They’re all still there. It’s funny, because I expected it to be the other way around. You were like a cockroach – nobody could get rid of Lyla. You got fired from two positions in one summer, yet still came to work everyday. It was your job to go on field trips. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a job before you came along and created it, and I know for a fact that it isn’t a job now. Only you – nothing was ever simple.

Maybe that’s why when I found out how you died I wasn’t shocked – it seemed like something you’d do, as sick as it is to admit. Why would Lyla want to die easily? Why would you want to be neat about it? No, you had to get the entire Babylon line closed down, stranding hundreds of commuters. There was a crime scene, and a beautiful mug shot of you in the Merrick Herald, in a body bag. Dramatic. You were into drama, weren’t you? We could have talked about it, maybe, if you’d come back this summer. I’m doing a musical with a theatre company this summer – in Babylon. I take the train to rehearsal everyday. Sometimes I see the Wantagh train speed past, not stopping, blowing me back toward the platform. I can’t figure out if you were a secret genius or not. You’d have to do a lot of planning to make a mess that big.

I’m not entirely sure why I felt compelled to write this letter to you – I guess because I never really said goodbye. A boy from my college died earlier this year, right around the time you did – and while I knew him and I’d talked to him, I didn’t feel any terrible loss once he was gone. They put up a memorial to him in the window of a building in our school. I wasn’t in any of the pictures they put by the shrine. I didn’t have any of the same memories. But Lyla, there are pictures of you on my memory card – and pictures of you in my memory. I felt loss hearing that news, and I couldn’t stand the idea that it was only manifested in a choked half-gasp at a meeting with Chris.

I guess I just want you to know that someone at camp will miss you. You were a weirdo, but a good kid. Long live The Fiji Mermaid.

Yours Sincerely,

Aly

I've decided that, with this journal, I'd like quality over quantity. I set out writing a little story opener the other day and I've been trying my hardest to work on it since then. Surprisingly, I kind of like it - and I don't exactly know where I'm going with it. I want to get it to a decent stopping point before I post the snippet I've written already. I don't think I'm going to finish the story, but I very well may finish one chapter of one story, and that's good enough for me whether I continue it or not. I made this journal so I could start writing again and, hey, I've already accomplished something!

Right now I'm in the small computer lab in the classroom building of my college messing around with their graphics programs and waiting for my dad to bring the car and move me out for the summer. The last time he called me he assumed he was about 30 minutes away, but that wasn't accounting for traffic. It seems so strange to be leaving when most of my friends are sticking around. I like going home, though, and just a few days after I arrive I'm going to be getting on a plane and heading to Maine to visit some of the friends who I'm leaving today. Once I'm back in my room at home my laptop is ONLY used for writing, so hopefully having it set up on my desk in my writing nook will encourage me.

I'm still pretty sure I'm my journal's only audience member, and that's kind of comforting in a funny way. It's like I'm putting my work out there (when I have work to put out there, that is) and anyone COULD stumble across it, but it's still safe. You can't account for someone whimsically stumbling across a blog, after all.

Hopefully there will be writing up soon!