I was only three years old when Terminator hit the theaters, but I managed to be traumatized by it anyway.

It happened at my Uncle Kevin and Aunt Mary K.'s house. We were having some kind of family gathering and I'd been playing outside in the garden with the dogs and cousins, and I came back inside for a drink or something. In the kitchen, I got a glass and went to fill it, listening to major demolitions going on in the TV room behind me. Being curious, I crept around the corner to see what they were watching. I don't remember who was in there, or really anything else about that day. What I remember is looking at the screen just in time for Arnold to remove his eyeball with a scalpel in a grungy motel room. (Don't click the link if you don't want to watch eyeball and arm surgery, folks. It's awesomely gross.)

I didn't realize for a long while that I was traumatized by that scene. But my first novel was all about a girl who has her eyes cut out by some ruffians and spends the rest of her life hunting other people to steal their eyes for her own purposes. With knives and bloody magic. And eyes play a part in most of the stories I wrote as a kid. Now, my muse takes the form of Odin, who sacrificed an eye in return for wisdom. My biggest phobia is loss of sight. Sure, maybe I have some past life trauma or was cursed in my mother's womb, but it's probably the fault of Terminator. I forgot all about that scene, too, until I was much, much older and watched the whole movie for the first time. That scene was like intense deja vu.

At least I could appreciate it for the keen movie it was by then.

My love for Terminator: Judgement Day is really all about my love for my youngest brother Travis. The movie came out in 1991, so this probably happened in 1992. Travis would have been 5 or so. (Yeah, about my age when I saw The Scene from the first movie).

There were these two guys who lived down the street from us, Brian and Justin. We hang out, played awesome games like "Escape from the Orphanage" and made lots of home movies. Every New Year's Eve we'd go spend the night next door with them at their Granny's house, staying up late and watching movies. This particular year, the movie on the docket was Terminator 2. Justin (the oldest) acquired permission from Mom, so long as we made sure Travis didn't see it. But of course, when it came down to it, Travis begged and was told "ok, so long as you promise not to tell your Mom."

So we watch the movie. Travis goes back home where Mom and Dad have a group of their friends over for the holiday, stands in the middle of the room, and announced "I just watched Terminator 2!"

Needless to say, after the uproar it became a joke. Don't tell Travis anything, he can't keep a secret. Ha ha ha. Remember T2?

It became Travis's favorite movie. Maybe because it represented being a big kid, or maybe just because he loved the T-800. And I mean, loved it. He cries when that big old cyborg dies, and the thumbs-up, you know the one, kills him every time. (Pun very much intended.) Travis, as he got older, would rant about the awesome father-son relationship, the pathos, the tenderness (only half-joking), the heart. "T2 is a love story!" he'd say.

So, you can probably imagine his excitement when he saw the preview for Terminator: Salvation. It was new! Dark! Shiny! Plus Bruce WayneChristian Bale! He began pumping us up for a family outing months ago. And finally, THE NIGHT ARRIVED.

We went in on Friday night, first to Ponaks, our favorite Mexican place. At one point, Dad, from the far end of the table, leaned over an asked us kids if we were excited for the movie, and me, nataliesee, Sean (middle brother), Maureen (Sean's wife), and Travis all simultaneously gave a solid thumbs up. It was perfectly choreographed.

The movie began at 8:15pm, and by the end, it was MY turn to be totally in love with a terminator.

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DUDE. Marcus Wright, despite your questionable origins and metallic skeletal structure, you can terminate me any day.

That's my most substantial reaction to the movie. ( My actual review is behind here. )

Woke up this morning and my eyeballs immediately informed me that today would not be a Good Vision Day.

I'm squinty and headachy and generally unhappy, which is really too bad because it's beautiful outside. Campus smells like lavender and the sky is this wicked, sharp blue. Bold colors, gentle breeze, mid-sixties.. what's not to love?

Oh, right. I just want to sit in the dark and wear sunglasses and generally hide from daylight. My glasses are helping, I'm sure, but I can't tell. So far the ibuprofen is a no-go. What I really need is to get my ass back to the optometrist so I can refill my blissful prescription for the magic vision pills.

When I was a kid I used to imagine what it would be like to be blind, and walk around with my eyes closed.

I also read by moonlight, so Mom wouldn't get angry that I wasn't going to sleep. It was easiest at Christmas time because I could use the colored fairy lights we put up around all the windows.

In fifth grade I started getting these headaches almost every day, but I passed all the in-school eye exams with more than flying colors, so I guess vision was ruled out. No one in my immediate family had glasses, and my headaches went away - or I don't remember them. I must have adjusted.

My first novel revolved around blindness. It was a fantasy, of the "high" variety, and the MC had her eyes cut out of her head. She learned how to use magic to steal eyeballs from other people (and her inability to see was a rather blatant thematic statement. She had no perspective of her own. I should... really mine that book for ideas). This tight, light-sensitive headache was something we shared.

Someone once suggested to me that my light-sensitivity came from having blue eyes. That the pale color drew in more light; that in short, my eyes dazzled themselves. I was skeptical, and in retrospect, he was probably hitting on me.

I want a dark cloak so I can hiss and hide under it for the rest of the day.