New Prometheus' Son


	                  New Prometheus' Son


                             David S. Farrar

                           © October 28, 1998

                          10/27/98 11:24:58 PM

        I have begun this journal, with the hope that, if there are 
survivors of this war... they may draw some wisdom from the events. 
God knows...we did not.

        I have little time, so I must provide basic information, 

        I am the son of Victor Frankenstein... the creature to whom 
he gave birth, in what was considered an unnatural, blasphemous manner 
-- and the icon of “dehumanization”  for the  20th century. Odd, in 
some ways, that the “author” of my father’s diaries, a woman certainly 
ahead of her time (by two centuries... little did she dream), was 
never asked, beyond another writers’s simple question, “From what 
portion of that ‘liberated brain of yours' did the story of 
Frankenstein evolve?”

        The true story is that Ms. Wallstonecraft Shelley hit the 
interviewer so hard with her closed fist that he suffered a 
permanently damaged nose. Ah... history.  She had interviewed me. Her 
book was the result (yes...she did write it at “that party”, with Lord 
Byron, and the rest, but she already had that "thrilling tale of 
horror" ready). Still, all this time, people  have assumed my father 
was an evil man (Ms. WS explained that she “had to frame the book in 
that context...” or, “...people simply will not receive it.”). 

        But, Victor was not the man depicted in the novel, by 
emotional temperament. He was a true father to me. His persecution 
has been duly noted....over, and over, and over....

        And now, his legacy falls to me. Nevermind that I am, 
technically and biologically, Victor  Frankensteins’s great grand-son. 
Nevermind that the “war of humanity” that threatens to eradicate out 
the so-called “true humans,” from the RC1 gene will no doubt destroy 
both species, long before we were able to communicate. 

        But, mind the legacy of my father (or, great-grandfathter
...choose your designation by the genetic dicatates of your species. 
His was a dream for which he paid, dearly. But it was a worthy one... 
and I am proud to call him “My Father.”


       If it were not for the man whom many call “monster,” I would 
not be able to tell this story...or offer this warning: do not mistake 
pride for progress....and do not confuse love with the need to 

      My father’s discovery of the RC-1 gene, and its various and 
deadly recombinants (which were developed as a type of biological 
warfare against the RC1 prototypes...of which I was the first) were 
accidental discoveries. 

      Like those described in James Burkes’s book “Connections,” this 
search was begun as a search for one goal -- in this case, a real 
vaccine  for AIDS  -- but which ended in a new discovery that, like 
certain genetic  manipulations of bacteria for the purpose of 
environmental protection,  led to the creation of lethal allergens in 
the entire biosphere.  

     This was the beginning of the lesson involved in the first 
warning above -- do not mistake pride for progress. The originators of 
the latter mistake were given Nobel Prizes. My father was executed in 
a brutal manner. I am trying, in the most straightforward manner, to 
describe events as I saw them I remember them. Of course 
there will be discrepancies between my account, and those of others. 

    Read as many accounts as you wish...and decide -- is there a truth 
to be learned? If so...what is it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Of what would might be called my childhood, I remember little. And 
yet, when I observe the memories “as recalled” in writing, under 
hypnosis, even the most sophisticated “neural net” recall systems are  
unable to discover much more in human memories that are not affected 
by the RC1 gene.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ to be continued ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Links of blood and bone...

Isaeri Seven: personal erotic exchange between consenting adults
Desert Heat,,,Desert Passion: -- beat drifter of the 90's remembers fantasies and realities from the 60's