Ellie Di Julio's Blog, page 7

Riding the Octopus: a metaphor about anger

The carnival is in town, and I walk through its myriad amusements to the back of the lot where they keep the rides.  My arms are loaded with gifts for others; I’ve had a full day and want to get home. I pass the Ferris wheel, the tiny rollercoaster, and the funhouse, and eventually my feet bring me to the gates of the Octopus–a sprawling, mad contraption with eight pneumatic arms ending in creaking, revolving carts.

I hate this ride. The rotation, the speed, the height, and the perilous seat...

I Pee More After Ten: A story about stories

In 9th grade biology, I learned about mitosis.  Cell division isn’t something that typically sticks in anyone’s mind (unless you’re a biologist), much less that of a hormonal 15-year-old worried about student council elections and acne.  The stages are so similar-sounding that they’re easily chased from memory when, say, an upperclassman asks you to Prom.

But I still remember the phases of mitosis: interphase, prophase, metaphase, anaphase, and telophase. (You’ll have to take my word for it...

The sweet fruit of connecting with strangers

I’d had one of those mornings full of minor annoyances that, if left unchecked, can turn into a whirlwind of ohmygodIhatethisdayandeveryoneinit.  Those days happen to me a lot, and I could already tell I’d be in for a pisser.  But I dropped off my husband, threw a letter in the mail, checked out a library book, and headed to the farmer’s market for some last-minute groceries.

I breezed my way down the long ramp to the lower level to find my favourite lettuce vendor (yes, those exist) and dis...

Things I found on the internet: killer technology, emotional labor, and Jack Black sings K-Pop

Strong Female Protagonist: A webcomic that follows the adventures of Mega Girl who has “super-strength, invincibility and a crippling sense of social injustice” as she tries to live a normal life. (Thanks, Eskins, for the rec!)

I Used to Be a Human Being: One man’s account of how living online in non-stop content engagement hurt his health, physically and emotionally.

Women Aren’t Nags–We’re Just Fed Up: I can’t even summarize this article about the huge weight of emotional labor women carry...

Remember your level

It’s a standard reminder in multi-story parking garages, and I’ve been in and out of this particular one a dozen times in the last couple of years, but for some reason the sign caught my attention this time.

Years of writing combined with years of noticing have made it nearly impossible for me to see a sign as just a sign. My brain immediately started generating alternate wordings, and none of them were good.

Remember your level.
Stay in your lane.
Mind your own business.
Keep your head down...

Things I’ve Googled that probably have me on a watch list

We all joke about how we want our best friend to delete our search history when we die, but let’s be real for a second here: Writers should be nuking their cache every night if they don’t want people to accidentally stumble upon our research windows and think their friend/loved one is either plotting to overthrow the government, covering up a brutal murder, or deeply interested in the sex lives of house pets.

Because I primarily write urban fantasy that’s based on the FBI having a special br...

Attraversiamo: Let’s cross over

I don’t know what it’s like for you reading this on the other end of an internet tube, but on this end, everything’s in flux.

We’re trying to move in a housing market that’s tripled pricetags and doubled rents since we last looked.

Mister is scouting for a new job with a company that loves people instead of dehumanizes them.

Mackenzie, now free from her brace, is entering toddlerhood in both movement and attitude.

My daycare provider is closing her business to go to college.

Our church is re...

Mackenzie’s Miracle

For those who don’t know, our daughter Mackenzie has congenital hip dysplasia. We caught it immediately because we knew to look for it; I had it, too. X-rays showed that her right hip socket was flat instead of cupped and the head of her femur was barely visible.

We agreed to try a brace (optimal positioning) starting last Christmas when she was 7 months old, the idea being that that by keeping the bones in place, they’d reshape themselves as they grew. Otherwise, it meant surgery. Like the k...

Starstuff

I'm face-down in our bed when Oscar gets home. Steam from my shower, the hottest I could take without blistering, escapes when he opens the bedroom door, dropping the temperature several degrees and making me wish I'd gotten dressed instead of collapsing in just a towel. My reddened skin erupts into goosebumps, and I consider burrowing into the covers, but I can't summon the energy.

"You're home early," he says, sitting down next to me. "I thought you'd be back tomorrow." The words hang in the air with expectation. I let them hang.

He doesn't let me get away with the silent treatment, though. He rolls clumsily over my legs, stretching out on his side of the bed in his work clothes. I scoot closer to steal his body heat. His familiar smell of sawdust and metal oil is comforting, and some of the tension drains out of my muscles just having him near.

We lay there for a long time. Then he says, "You're not going to tell me what happened at the Center, are you?"

I shake my head, both as an answer and to loosen the iron lump in my throat. There's another long stretch of silence. The wall clock ticks, the bathtub faucet drips, the ceiling fan whirs.

I'm just about to fall asleep, to give up on the day and maybe life while I'm at it, when Oscar squeezes my bare shoulder. I start and lift my head to glare at him.

"Hey," he says with a grin, "come with me. I want to show you something."

My glare intensifies, then I pointedly flop back into the pillows.

"Come on, Becca," he insists.

I make a muffled "go away" noise.

A couple of beats pass, then there's a very wet sucking sound followed by a very wet finger stuck directly in my ear. I rocket away from him, flipping over onto my feet while simultaneously trying to wipe spit out of my ear with one hand and keep my towel on with the other.

"Ugh! How old are you?!" I yell over his laughter.

He rounds the bed to catch me before I bolt for the bathroom. I reluctantly let him bundle me into his arms. "You knew what you were getting into when you married me," he says, cradling me against his stained coveralls.

It's meant to be cute, but suddenly I'm wondering if he knew what he was getting into when he married me. He's worked so hard. He sacrificed his own dreams, moved across the country, spent all his time and money on me, and encouraged me through two years of training—all to make today possible. And I blew it.

I try to pull away, but his arms don't budge. I look anywhere except at him. After ten years together, I know there won't be any condemnation in his face, no casting of guilt or shame. Just love, acceptance, and grace. And that's so much worse.

Pressing his cheek to mine, he whispers. "Just give me two minutes, okay? Then you can run back up here and hide for as long as you want. I'll even run into town for a pizza."

I want to say no. I know I can. It'll be fine. He'll kiss me on the forehead, drive an hour round trip to bring me a medium with everything, then go downstairs to watch TV and give me space for as long as it takes for me to recover.

There's no recovering this time, though. Not after the Center sent me home. The damage is too complete. Oscar may be the best handyman in the tri-county area, but even he can't repair a dream that's been crushed into dust. Not with tools, not with kindness.

But I need to let him try.

I wordlessly slip a hand into his. I let him lead me down the stairs and through the patio doors. I'm immediately self-conscious about being outside half naked despite the nearest neighbor being a mile away and the sun having set hours ago. I tighten my grip on the front of the towel. We walk through the dewy grass until the motion sensor light on the back of the house loses us and clicks off, but we keep going until we hit the edge of the property, then Oscar stops alongside my telescope and looks up at the sky.

I don't look. I can't.

"Why did you bring me out here?" I say through tight teeth.

"Because you need to see it."

Even though I close my eyes against fresh tears, I do see it. I can't not. The panorama over my head paints itself across the black canvas of my mind at light speed. The shaggy, bluish glow of the Orion arm of the Milky Way spreads out in a great streak to join up with the heart of the galaxy thousands of light years away. Summer stars without number beam and dance in their constellations. Andromeda waves from its neighborly position. And my heart breaks again.

Oscar pulls me to him, my back against his chest. "Look up, baby. Look."

"I can't," I whisper. "I didn't pass. I'll never get to go."

In my mind's eye, the beauty of the galaxy disintegrates into memories. Cold rooms and colder people. Reams of paper filled with questions I've devoted years to answering. Sweat and strain and strength on display. All culminating in a permanent stamp on the file marked with my name: red, denied, unfit.

Oscar lets me go suddenly, just as I'm beginning to spiral. I'm torn between offense and relief. I start to turn, to say something about his idea not working but thanks for trying, when I feel the tiniest point of pressure on my back, right above my towel. I inhale sharply and freeze. The pressure moves gently down in a short, diagonal line, then right, then down, then left, then up, almost returning to where it started. The cool night air brushes against the line it creates—ink.

A faint smile touches my lips as I realize what he's doing. I let the towel fall. Then I open my streaming eyes and lift my face to the stars.

He draws all across my back, over my shoulders, down my thighs, around my waist, and back up again, connecting the myriad freckles on my pale skin into constellations and asterisms—the shapes he's learned by proxy from hundreds of hours of helping me study—transforming my body into a replica of the heavens above us. Cassiopeia, Ursa Major, Hercules, Lyra, Sagittarius, the Big Dipper, on and on and on.

When there are no more stars to map, he draws me back to him, arms over my arms and chin tucked into my shoulder. We both watch the sky for a while. Then he says, "You and the stars are made of the same stuff, Becca. Dust and light and something sacred. No program or test or board of judges can ever separate you from them. Even if you never get to see them up close, the stars will always be a part of you."

I lean back against him, silent and tear-stained but smiling. They're just words, and they can't unbreak my heart. But they're the truth.

Tomorrow night, the stars will still be here, calling out to the dust and the light and the sacred in me, waiting for me to rejoin them--if only from my backyard.

_________
Story content © Ellie Di Julio 2017
Art: Unknown by unknown via Tumblr
_________
This story is brought to you by the kind patrons of Ellie Di Julio’s writing. If you liked it, join the community at Patreon and shareshareshare.

Things I found on the internet: neurodivergence, dieting, and the artist’s task

“We Are Not Your Backstories” by K.C. Alexander from Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction: “[…] neurodivergency is seizing its rightful place in the future. We are not your platforms, your aliens, your Other. We are the sum of our whole, invisible disability and all, and we are not damsels. I am an incredible story. We deserve our incredible stories.”

Writers, Protect Your Inner Life: “We’re living in a culture in which the Wall Street Journal publishes a front-page article about a dermat...