Lou Freshwater on the Frankenstein Myth

What is it about the Frankenstein myth that so fascinates? The cynic might say it is the ignorant fear of science. The philosopher might say there are no monsters in nature, that monsters are always man-made. The moralist might say that anything taken to excess becomes vice; the faithful that no man can become God. Lou Freshwater told me that "there are a lot of ways [she] identifies with the creature." That got me to thinking about the ways in which a person might sympathize with him. I have always been fascinated by the Frankenstein myth. For me, an identification occurs on the level of being an outcast, something I have felt in the past. This feeling may be common to adolescents who experience the competing forces of individuality and socio-familial coercion as an unbearable torment. Of course, there are other, and worse, types of being coerced or outcast. We are made. We spend our whole lives coming to terms with this, in a spiraling attempt to remake ourselves.

I'm very pleased to present this monologue and poem from Lou Freshwater. You can find more provocative poems and stories by Lou at her blog, Baby's Black Balloon.

Robert De Niro in Kenneth Brannagh's Frankenstein

The Creature (a monologue followed by a poem)
by Lou Freshwater



The Creature, to an Empty Chair


[Points toward the audience]
They all call me Frankenstein.
[Turns to face chair]
But that is not my name, it is yours father.
I am just a creature, without a name, without anything. You gave me life but kept from me the tools to live. I am alone, surrounded by people who are unable to look at me without convulsing in disgust or running in terror. I have never known love. Never. How could you not know, father, what is needed by the human heart? The heart you placed into my chest with your very own hands? The heart that bulges and splits as I stand outside of strangers' houses, peering in, straining and grasping and rasping as I ache and shake and wish for death to relieve me.

Of course you know, because from the moment of your first breath you have been loved and you have known what it is like to be connected to another human being, connected from a string attached to that place buried deep within the chest.

Whether it is winter, or spring, or fall. Whether the sky is holding rain in its sullen belly or emptying it out one stinging drop at a time. Whether I walk near the slow sink of a glacier or around some family’s cottage full of amber and sweet smells, laughter and tears… I walk without, without house, parent, friend, or spouse.

[pauses]
Know me father.
Because it will glue me. Because then, I can go and live. I won’t ask to know you. Don’t fear, I will leave you alone. Just give me this one thing and then I will find a home, a place to belong. A little square room with bare walls and stuffy air that will save me from this outdoor tomb.
[looks at the chair]
You will not look at me, father.
[raises voice]
Look at me.
[pause]
I don’t care if you scream.
Scream, coward, scream.
This is not a monster you see. It is pain taking a form, Plato’s dream, born from your hands father that rejected me, giving me the color of abandonment, eyes dulled by isolation, a body deceased without life-giving touch.
I walk, ache, walk, ache,
as my pulse thumps in the silence.
My feet become the wet, cold, decomposing leaves underneath.
Acid and pressure build inside as I yearn for a family.
You, you have such complaints about how you’ve been neglected or mistreated by your parents. Not enough time spent playing child-hood games with you. Not enough warmth and support for you. You moan and groan about siblings and cousins who disappoint you, who fail in their own lives, who forget to write you with empty greetings. But imagine, father, for one moment imagine being me. No family. Not one other to claim, not one other who shares your name.
I am a boat untethered, floating without company in the dark and angry sea.
So yes, I ask you for a bride. But a bride will not bring me identity. She may – oh, god please – love me and she may place her sweet, sweet, hand on my cheek filling me… finally. But without you, I will still not be able to fight the voices from within that mimic and mock those I have heard so often, the voices that tell me how repulsive I am and evil and wrong and how I should not have ever been born. Without you father, these voices will only grow louder and shriller and I will have no weapon against them. It will be my curse and this magnificent brain you have given me will begin to corrode itself and turn on me and the only choice I will have will be to turn on others and commit acts of violence so hideous… just to release some of the pressure!
A bride will not bring identity.
Know me father.
You are my mirror, reflect me.
I will feel repulsive, alone, always father, always until my creator sees me,
knows me.



The Creature, to his Father

"Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed
with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone?
You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your
fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me.”

~Mary Shelley


Whether I walk near the slow
sink of a glacier or around
their family cottage full of amber,
I walk without, without
house, parent, friend, spouse.
You will not look at me, father.
Look at me.
I don’t care if you scream,
coward, scream.
This is not a monster you see.
It is pain taking a form, Plato’s
dream, born from your hands
father that tossed me, giving me
the color of abandonment,
eyes dulled by isolation,
a body deceased
without life-giving touch.
I walk, ache, walk, ache, as my
pulse thumps in the silence.
My feet become the wet, cold,
decomposing leaves underneath.
Know me father.
You are my mirror, reflect me.
A bride will not bring identity!
I will feel repulsive, alone,
always father, always until
my creator sees me,
knows me.