“Is that the guy that plays Hank in your book?”

We were watching LOST together—my 10 year-old moppy-headed boy and me. It was last season, when the Oceanic 6 returned to the island (I can’t keep seasons straight–5? 4? Heck, I can’t even tell you how old I am without subtracting 2 years from The Hubby’s age. Unless it’s that beautiful season between May 31 and July 11, when I get to be THREE years younger for the 41 most glorious days outside of Christmas).

Anyway, we were watching LOST, and it was a scene with Frank and…well, I’m not going to pretend I remember what scene it was. It’s immaterial anyway. The point of this is that Ethan was talking about Frank, played by Jeff Fahey.

image of Jeff Fahey in LOST, "Confirmed Dead" from Wikia entertainment

Frank’s character was introduced a couple of seasons ago (3? 4?),. Now, if you’ve read the little blurb about my life (marriage, yada yada, Down syndrome, yada yada, llama), you’re no doubt wondering how I find time to watch tv. All I can say is I hope Mr. TiVo made himself a nice fortune, and is enjoying it on some island somewhere with one of those private striped cabana thingies and a valet to bring him fruity drinks whenever he wants.

Without TiVo, I’d never get to watch anything. Even with TiVo, it’s dicey. Is Biggest Loser over already? I’ve been TiVoing the whole season, haven’t watched a single episode. Finally gave up on Heroes, Survivor, The Amazing Race (sniff), pretty much everything except LOST.

To be completely honest (what, you think I’d lie?), I’m using the term “watch” in the loosest of all possible senses. See, me “watching” an episode of LOST goes something like this:

Me, talking to myself(oh, like you don’t), finger hovering over the fast-forward button : “Walking through the jungle…more jungle…talking!” At which point I switch from “fast forward” to “play,” then try to rewind back five seconds to catch the beginning of what they said, which is really frustrating because for some reason you can’t rewind back five seconds with TiVo, so I end up rewinding 15 seconds and watching the 10 seconds of walking through the jungle that I just fast forwarded through (okay, maybe Mr. TiVo doesn’t deserve the private cabana thingy until he fixes that little glitch). And usually I’m changing a diaper at the same time, because that’s the only time I can steal away to my room without being followed. 

So…diaper…jungle…TiVo…oh, yeah—Frank.

So, Frank’s character was introduced at the end of the season, during a moment when it just so happened that Mason had kicked the remote control off of the bed during a diaper change, so there was no fast-forwarding going on. I happened to glance up at the tv to see if the lack of dialogue was due to walking through the jungle (it wasn’t), and said to myself, “Hey, that’s Jeff Fahey.” And then Mason managed to get one foot free and haul it up over his head (there’s that ligament laxity again) and kick the box of wipies across the room, narrowly missing my face.

I had to save the rest of the episode for another day (that’s another thing about me “watching” a show: it takes a good 6 days for me to watch an entire 1-hour program). That night, I had a dream about…well, it’s kind of vague now, but there was this chick, and there was this shady secret agent type guy–who happened to be Jeff Fahey. You know that novel I’m writing (the one that’s THIS CLOSE to being finished, only I haven’t had time to work on it since starting the whole adoption thing? And yes, I realize I haven’t blogged about the adoption thing. Geez, like I need more pressure….)? Well, that’s kind of how it all started, with a 90 second dream.

And to answer Ethan’s question, yes. That’s the guy. And then it hit me that Ethan had never seen The Lawnmower Man. Yeah, I realize I’m kinda random. I’m assuming that fact didn’t totally blindside you. But it wasn’t so random at the time, because the kids had just found this old video that we bought back in the early 90s called “The Mind’s Eye.” It was a compilation of early (waaaay early) computer animation. Back in the day it was cutting edge. And it was about that same time that The Lawnmower Man came out. So see, everything ties together all nice and neat.

“What’s Lawnmower Man?”

So I explained to Ethan that Lawnmower Man was about virtual reality, and that it was one of the first movies to use computer animation. Not to mention the fact that the main character (played by Jeff Fahey) is a man who happens to be intellectually disabled.

Ethan was intrigued at the prospect of seeing what passed for cutting edge back in my day, and having a brother with Down syndrome, he’s always up for the topic of intellectual disability. So I TiVo’d it (on one of the channels that edits out language and ‘nudery’). Once I was able to ignore Ethan’s ridicule (“THIS used to be high-tech?”), I realized that having a child with a cognitive disability gave me a different perspective on the movie this time around.

When I was in 5th grade, I read “Flowers for Algernon.” Amazing book, even as an 10 year-old.

The “Algernon” of the title is a lab mouse who experiences a quantum leap in cognition following a breakthrough surgery. Subsequently, the title character–an intellectually disabled man named Charlie– undergoes this same surgery. Not only does it ”cure” his condition, but he becomes a genius. But Charlie isn’t prepared for his sudden change in IQ, and his story doesn’t end well.

Lawnmower Man follows a similar theme, only it’s a chemical cocktail developed by the military instead of surgery that ‘cures’ main character Jobe, plus it’s got some virtual reality, a chimpanzee instead of a mouse, and an abusive Hugo-esque (Hunchback of Notre Dame ring any bells?) priest who views Jobe’s disability as a curse thrown into the mix.

As the mother of an intellectually disabled child, I appreciated Fahey’s sensitive portrayal of a young man who takes great pride in his work, who loves his friends dearly, and who is painfully aware of the taunting of the town bully. His story ends better than Charlie’s, but only because you can pretty much break all the rules when you’re talking about virtual reality. And only if by “better,” you mean he gets to pretty much kill everyone who ever hurt him.

Both works show man’s desire to tinker with God’s creation, to “cure” what we see as imperfection. Charlie was perfectly happy as a janitor. Jobe was happy mowing lawns. Neither of their “cures” made them better people.

I read today that researchers think they have a “cure” for the cognitive delays associated with Down syndrome. The treatment has evidently shown promise in mice, and they’re hoping it will yield similar results in human subjects someday. Think of it: a “cure” for cognitive disability. A breakthrough treatment, and my Mason could be just as smart as any other kid on the block. Normal. Ordinary. And in the process, just maybe it would “cure” him of his unquenchable joy, his resilience, his steadfast persistence. Maybe when things didn’t go his way, instead of cocking his head to the side and flashing his trademark smile maybe he’d stomp his feet and pout and give up.

At what cost, this “cure?” How do you extricate the “self” from cognition? How do you pull one thread from the rug without compromising the pattern? And what if you can’t? What part of the “self” do you kill in this quest for perfection?

I won’t vilify the parents who jump at the chance to increase their children’s IQs. I hope it works out better for their children than for Charlie and Jobe, I really do.

But I think I’ll pass. Last thing I need is an angry kid with a lawnmower….

I’ve always loved reading. Summers when I was a kid, I would climb up the mimosa tree in our back yard and sit on the roof, reading Caddie Woodlawn or Trixie Belden. I would read late into the evening, read in the car on road trips–even though I always got carsick.

I read Daniel Keyes’ Flowers for Algernon in the third grade, and Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House in seventh. I read Foucalt’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco in high school. And somewhere in between, I managed to read everything Erma Bombeck ever wrote.

I still love reading, love losing myself in someone else’s reality. At least, I think I do. It’s been so long….

I mean, I’ve been working on my own novel for eighteen months now, and between writing and living the Chaotic Deam I don’t have a whole lot of time for leisure pursuits like reading.

I listened enviously at my writers’ conference a few weeks back as my peers swapped reviews of the books they were reading. I’m a writer, for cryin’ in a bucket–words are my trade and my craft. I should be immersing myself in them. But I had nothing to add to the conversation. Which is welcome, but rare.

When I got back to my hotel room that night, I tried to recall every book I’ve read this year. It was a quick exercise, because it was a short list. On it were eight fiction titles: The Horse and His Boy, The Little Prince (which I read every year, but I’m counting it anyway), The Stolen Child, Thr3e, Big Trouble, Fall on Your Knees, and two unpublished manuscripts by my writer buddies. Then I listed my six nonfiction reads: The Man Who Tried To Save The World, Kabul Beauty School, Writing the Breakout Novel, The Career Novelist, How to Write A Damn Good Novel, and The Plot Thickens. Grand total: fourteen. Fourteen books in an entire year. Barely more than one per month. And I call myself a wordsmith.

There were others that I tried to read, titles that looked promising but whose lure proved fleeting: narrative-heavy pages written around flat characters who spoke plastic words. I’ve heard readers say that they only give a novel thirty pages before they decide whether to keep reading. I wish I could make it that far. If I’m not hooked by page four, it ain’t happening. It’s not that I don’t want to invest the time, but these days I have the attention span of a labrador puppy in a swarm of grasshoppers.

I still manage to be a voracious reader, though. Like a woman on a diet, I find myself bingeing on junk-print. I read magazines cover-to-cover. I sometimes even look for the longest grocery line, just so I’ll be able to finish an article in peace. When I tear open the shrink-wrapping to dig my weekly coupons out of the newspaper, I can’t resist reading the tabloid-style entertainment mag. I wouldn’t give a half-chewed licorice jelly bean (because unless you bite them in half, you can’t tell whether they’re licorice–gag, or espresso–yum) for the movie star’s secret to happiness plastered across the front cover. Yet I read the whole thing. And then the comics. Even the stupid ones.

That part of my soul that derives its nourishment from the written word demands to be fed, and if I don’t keep my pantry stocked with good literary fiber, well I guess it’s going to fill the void with the literary equivalent of Doritos and Twinkies.

So when I arrived home from my conference, I decided it was time to shape up. Armed with all the motivation of a reformed couch potato with a fresh New Year’s Resolution, I boldly committed to changing my ways. Full of willpower and determined to punish myself for the patterns that got me to this place, I went out and obtained that Bow-Flex of books: James Michener’s Alaska.

I made it to page four.

Books are too small to make good towel hangers, but Alaska, like a Bow-Flex, is gathering dust in my bedroom. I’m sure if I had more time I’d have made it work. I’ve heard wonderful things about it. No doubt it would have chiseled the abs of my erudition. But I couldn’t muster the effort. It was too much, too soon. I’m not ready for a marathon. I need to take baby steps. Low-impact.

So here I am, humbled by my reality-pie. I’m still committed to read more, and to read better (I’m keeping Cosmo, though–don’t you judge me).

Yesterday, while checking out a FB post from Writers’ League of Texas, I happened across a link to BookingMama’s website. She reads. A lot. This month, she reviewed The Castaways, which sounds kind of like The Big Chill, only on Nantucket in the summertime. But without the kick-booty soundtrack.

Sounds like something I could handle, your basic non-incline treadmill set on a just-enough-to-be-challenging speed-walking pace. She promises the characters are wonderfully developed, and the setting beautifully described. Something I could succeed at, and hopefully that success can carry me on to further challenges.

Even better (dontcha’ just love when it gets even better?), Booking Mama is giving away a copy of The Castaways this month. In the interest of really-wanting-to-win, I shouldn’t share the link, but I like y’all, and since I haven’t been able to come up with a giveaway of my own to show my appreciation for you reading my little blog, here ya’ go: http://bookingmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/review-castaways-giveaway.html.

And if you do win, let me know. I may want to borrow it when you’re done….