Frankenstein Monster Accused of Stealing Underpants

Painting by Sebastian Ferreira



Before the Neo-Luddite Convention
Dedicated to Mary Shelley
As recorded by David Arthur Walters

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am a Frankenstein Monster.

I have overheard the gossip about me. It is misleading hearsay, so I will speak for myself. I will refer to these notes I have prepared, not because I have a defective memory, but because I fear my broken heart will distract me. I will try to be brief and concise, for I am only too familiar with the impatience of a crowd and its primitive need for simple solutions.

I will only address at this time the vicious rumor that since my story is about an artificial creature that has run amok, it is meant to warn modern man of the dangers of science and its rational technology. Some have gone so far to recommend not only a halt to scientific progress, but even the wholesale destruction of its creations. I am personally familiar with the horrible consequences of that irrational bias, and I say it is ultimately self-destructive. This becomes obvious to those who examine the monster chasers.  Be that as it may, allow me to say a few things about myself. I’m sure my anecdotes will be of great import to those who sympathize with monsters, knowing that science is not at fault. Indeed, careful scientific analysis will reveal that a monster would develop into a valuable member of society if it were not for its incoherent members.

I have always wondered about my origins. I must admit that my early memories are fragmented. I think somebody loved me, but I don’t remember who. I was told my mother suddenly died when I was very little. I recall someone saying, much to my irritation: “He’s three years old!” I knew I was actually ancient, much older than that, maybe even immortal.

I remember I loved my father, but he couldn’t personally take care of me for long, so I was placed in a foster home. I was always looking for my father. I was sad, but I knew I was good because of the hurt I felt. It was then that I started to read, or at least to make up meanings for the symbols I saw in books, based upon what I had heard others say.

Since I was alone most of the time, much was left to my imagination, the fruit of my desire. I believed that if I learned the language of the giants I would no longer feel so abandoned.

My father’s intentions were always the best. He eventually remarried and came for me, but I was sorry to leave the foster home where I was allowed to run free. I was even given a quarter on Saturdays to see the triple feature downtown. But my step mother imposed limitations on me. She taught me that I was a bad boy and a liar subject to discipline. I was also accused of being a thief. The charge was that I had stolen another boy’s underpants at the swimming pool. I was thoroughly confused by these identifications, and I blamed the impositions on my father. I began to hate the creator who tolerated and supported the stifling atmosphere of my new home. That was when I started wondering who my real mother was, because surely she would know I was good and would love me always. So I ran away from my new home to find my origin. I believed in a feminine origin, my original mother, to whom I constantly prayed. I have been wandering the face of the earth ever since seeking her and therefore my own identity. Without her I am nothing but a vile jumble of rotting garbage.

I feel like I’ve been haphazardly thrown together, made up of many incongruous parts. I have longed so fervently for integrity, for truth! Others seemed to know who they were. Why not me? I tried the various techniques recommended, but they didn’t seem to work. The methods certainly didn’t sooth the discordant aching of my heart. I began to think that maybe the whole world was full of liars going around saying they knew who they were. Some of them said that there was even more to come after death; that I was to burn in hell if I didn’t do as they said. Oh no!

In any event, I didn’t give up. I kept seeking. Seeking a wife to make me whole: that’s the solution! After I ran away, many were the times I would peer into the windows of homes where I would see apparently happy families in their familiar activities. I would make my own home! I was desperate. I found a wife and made a home. Like my father, my intentions were the best, but the marriage was a puzzle of crazy quilt work that finally unravelled, leaving me in a stupid and painful stupor as always, stupid in that, in my clumsiness, I had crushed the very things I desired the most. I didn’t give up. As a man I was supposed to be a great leader. I tried it again with the same effect. I didn’t know what a home was or how to make one from scratch. I failed miserably, leaving behind me a trail of tears and regrets.

I can’t fathom why I keep meandering about this globe. I feel so useless, but I go on like a zombie. Who made me?

Why can’t I just end it all? What makes me tick? What is my fate? Who am I? What am I?

I’ve stopped looking around for that one woman who can make me right. There are occasions when I inadvertently glance at a woman and, when caught in the act, smile. But the women return my curiosity with a countenance of disgust as if the sight of me gives them cause to vomit. Am I so ugly? I peer into the mirror. I must be the horrible one nobody wants. Who made me this way? When I speak out loud this way, sometimes someone says something nice and encouraging, but they themselves do not want me. They say there is someone out there for everybody, but that someone is not me. Don’t worry, someone feeling guilty says, Jesus loves you (but I don’t). I have their sympathy but not their love.

Can anyone imagine how hard it is to even walk down the street in my state?  Alone in my crude dwelling, I have good intentions, so I step out into the crowd smiling, but they are afraid to look at me, they walk right at me as if I didn’t exist. Oh, there’s one who actually sees me! But knowing I have caught his eye, he gives me a murderous look, a look that would turn the most ardent romantic into stone. This hate I feel is incomprehensible. I am enraged. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t rehearse mayhem in my mind. I hear remarks about a man who ran amok with an assault rifle, and wonder why people think that is so astonishing. I have been running from the mob for a long time now. I know what its members are capable of.

Nevertheless, I haven’t completely lost my sense of humor. One of the most comic features of the tragedy is that the mob would lynch a monster on sight, or burn, freeze, electrocute, gas or otherwise execute the execrable creature. I will hide in my cave until they are finished destroying each other, and then I will stand alone to have the last cruel laugh as my revenge, the last man living on the earth, howling with glee to the high heavens!

Dear Aspiring Poet


Much has originated from the brief intersection of our lives at the Internet Cafe on that sunny Sunday morning in Paradise some time ago. I remember you well. You asked me if I were a writer, and you revealed yourself as the same in a soft voice barely audible over the clickety-clacking of the surrounding keyboards.

I glanced at the sleeping fellow with purple hair on the couch and wondered what the hourly rack-rate might be for sleeping the cafe. I turned to you and remarked on the “spiritual” quality of our present premises. You returned with, “Yes, and despite the technology too.” To which I retorted, “The transmission of Truth doesn’t require a modem, and is apprehended by sleeping babies in the womb.” 

You said you were not very sure of yourself as a writer, that your critics claim your prose is pretty bad politics. On the other hand, your poetry is evidently genuinely appreciated: you received an invitation to read it again at Barnes & Noble. 

I was quick to counsel you from my amateur’s seat of authority. You may recall that I asked if poetry is where your Heart is, because that is where you must go to be free. I said I’d received a poem from my father of merely twelve lines that spoke twelve volumes. Your inevitable question followed, “Is he published?” I answered: “Well, a few of his poems have appeared in print and have won prizes, but that’s beside the point of his sixty-five years of polishing them, then stuffing them back into the trunk for future perfecting. After all, to begin with, the artist must be free of the awful market.” 

My respect for entrunked poetry did not seem to impress you with a prospect for your immediate success, so I switched the subject to prose as follows. As you will recall, you did say, when I mentioned my father’s brevity, that you didn’t like wordy poems. I emphatically declared Creation itself to be poetry, and effused: “Good prose is a river singing the same song no matter where one stops by its banks to listen, a song of love that is worthy of infinite repetition.” 

You were quiet then, but from the silence I thought I heard a plaintive, whispered cry, for a bridge to close the terrible heart-rending gap of alienation. I faintly felt a will striving to find the most direct path to communication. 

Perhaps my thoughts and feelings were my own. Perhaps not. You were professedly thinking of something else at the time. You said you thought you were already old at thirty-something. 

Ah, there it is again, I mused, the overriding fear of time – people over thirty don’t trust themselves. With that in mind, I wondered what more I could say on the spur of the moment. I presented to your ears a wee monologue on how I write, a subject of small apparent interest to you, but I went on nevertheless. 

“I write free of time constraints because I know I am part of all that came and went and will come. I merely pass on the royal lines of my race,” I related. “That alone suffices for me, and if none care to read me, I am contented with writing for my muse alone, for writing is my transcendental meditation.” 

You seemed to have had enough of my outpouring by then, as if in your quest for a personal solution you cared not to hear of mine. I’ve had the same feeling with advisors who are always eager to tell me how to run my shop. In any event, I liked you. You were obviously quite shy, so to be discreet rather than pushing for your phone number, I presented my card, and I promised that, if you would send me something of yours, then I would mail you something of mine. 

I should have pressed you for your phone number. I heard nothing from you during yet another silent epoch in my life with strangers in paradise. I have so many words held for such a long time in abeyance that I am moved to jot these down. Perhaps your letter will come after all, then this reply will be almost completed when it arrives. 

I continued on my way to the beach on that sunny day of our meeting. As you know, writers often write mentally when not actually writing – blind Milton used to cry out desperately in the night for his faithful wife to come and record his pent-up lines. As I strolled along, strange voices crowded out my own thoughts: 

We are the dead alive, the dead seen in your faces, the dead resurrected. We are those who were and who will become, We are history, and to know us is to know who you are. You think you are old, but we say you are much older than you think, for you are ancient. Listen to us. Raise the dead. We know you. You are somebody, the truth that has come true, so call on us and you will never be alone. Do you feel the fires of freedom? Then let your heart flame up to the heavens and cast its liberating light on the worldly signs below so that others can find the way. In the fierce heat you shall always find our voice and it shall be your precious voice of Love singing the song that weaves eternity. Welcome the fire coursing in your veins. Be the rhythm of your heart pumping liberty. And let that hand that records your passion be the loving hand that plucked Shelley’s heart from the crematory and carried it back to England in its little casket to Mary as she remembered his advice to follow her Heart. 

I look forward to hearing from you. 

David Arthur Walters


Epilogue: Six months after I drafted this letter, I encountered the young woman at a writer’s workshop. I was delighted to see her, and I wanted to give her my letter, which I had been carrying around in my briefcase for many weeks. I walked over and sat down by her and introduced myself as the man she had met at the Internet Cafe. She said nothing, got up and walked briskly to the other side of the room, and sat down with her back to me.

Floatopia Will NOT Be Tolerated in South Beach!



18 April 2016 C.E. 

By David Arthur Walters

Miami Beach

“Floatopia will NOT be tolerated!” screamed Philip “King” Levine on his Vanity Timeline @mayorphiliplevine aka @mayorego. “STOP!” yelled the King, and he screamed again, “NEVER AGAIN!”

Yelling and Screaming has been banned by the King because almost all Yelling and Screaming, like everything else that happens in the realm, is about HRM. Of course an Exception must be made for His Exceptional Self.

Thousands of commoners descended upon the Royal Beach from the poorest precincts of the Realm with floatation devices on the Sabbath. The flash mob snarled traffic and littered the Beach, and many carefree participants relieved themselves in the ocean. They brought their own food and beverage. Only one sale was made on the King’s Beach, an inflatable plastic inner tube, purchased at Walgreens.   

The main complaint was the traffic, for only the King is allowed to snarl traffic, with his Get It Done capital improvement programs in order to line the pockets of developers, contractors, and event promoters bearing Letters of Patent, to boost money laundering and tourism, and to ostensibly save the Realm from Global Warming and Sewage. 

His Majesty commanded his Chief Horseman, Jimmy Morales, Esquire, to announce a scheme to His Majesty’s Court to violate his subjects’ common law right to float in such a way that the new law would avoid the Appearance of Impropriety abhorred by The Kings Inn. 

That the King is above the Law as the Source of the Law is beyond the shadow of a doubt, wherefore the Court, which, according to Chamberlain Michael Grieco, a Barrister specializing in criminal cases, “almost always” approves Recommendations that His Majesty commands Sir Morales to make to the Court, will compose a Pragma, upon which shall be placed the Royal Seal, that there shalt NEVER AGAIN be a Floatation Day without a Floatation Tax of 2,822 Norman shillings (US$200) levied on each Floatation Device and duly remitted to the Royal Treasury. Only the floatation devices of Cuban refugees shall be exempt from the Floatation Tax. 

That absolutely legal device is expected to STOP Floatation Day because only the most loyal of subjects, few in number, will pay the Tax or go to Gaol, for he who pays the King shillings or takes his shillings is the King’s man.



Tricks of World’s Most Popular Blogger






Bloghog, Google’s Most Popular Blogger, has been posting ten posts on each of a dozen of her blogs for seven days a week for the last ten years. The traffic and advertising revenue she has generated has set a Google world record. Her posts average 88 words. Her choice of subject matter has attracted 9,400,316 followers. Here are the titles and the first lines of her posts today for the edification of ambitious bloggers:

1. It Takes Me Awhile to Wake Up

Ever since I took an acting method class and learned that people do not wake up suddenly, I have been waking up in seven stages. By that time my husband has already gone to work. This method works, ladies….

2. What Does My Dream Mean?

I dreamed I was a penguin last night, standing in the dark on the South Pole with an egg between my legs. Does that mean I am bisexual? My Dream Dictionary says….

3. The Best Toothpaste On The Market

There is only one brand of toothpaste that helps you lose weight if you brush before meals….

4. The Man On The Elevator

When the elevator got stuck this morning, a man pried open the doors and got me out, then the elevator took off and left his head rolling in the hall at my feet. I managed to cope with the delay….

5. Traffic Opportunity

The drive to the mall was unbearable today, stop and go, but it gave me a chance to try the new lipstick my building superintendent gave me. She wants me to become a Forever Glossy associate….

6. It Is Better To Own Than To Rent

We will own our house free and clear when the mortgage is paid off, and you should too. This is why….

7. What I Had For Lunch

Lunch is the most important meal of the day, so I eat a light lunch. I had….

9. The Server Must Be Down

I couldn’t get into the site to post my work. This is my rant about it and I hope you like it!

10. I’m Glad My Husband Is Working

My prayer was answered. My husband works six days a week, and he says he is glad that he does. This is the prayer I want to share with you because I am so happy!!!!

The Wooden Government of Miami Beach




Noise from the trenchless drilling of the Miami Beach redundant sewer in densely populated South Beach has nearly driven people anywhere near the engines crazy.


The main fault is laid upon the government and not the contractors, from which we have already received illuminating comments from John English of Horizontal Technologies, an industry spokesman and consulting subcontractor to general contractor David Mancini & Sons and drillers Spartan Directional, and Hard Rock Directional:


“You are starting to embarrass yourself now. I have read better stuff in middle school papers. Not even sure what the article is about. I doubt they are interested in my opinion that the article is poorly written. Continue your tantrum until someone notices. I saw a young girl doing the same in a grocery store this weekend, just as annoying…”


Mr. English, an avid fan of Ayn Rand who quotes Atlas Shrugged on his company’s website, has compared the protection of human beings from excessive and unnecessary noise in densely populated Miami Beach to unwarranted governmental protection of birds and snails in their natural environment.

Atlas Shrugged is a novel that rationalizes selfishness. Sales of the book soared after the Enron Scandal because businessmen felt they were being unfairly prosecuted for saving the nation.


Mr. English said that anyone who associates noise with civil rights is an “idiot.” Since that category would include hundreds of legislators throughout the country, they are being apprised of his opinion even though he does not think it would matter to them.


On the other hand, he said there was room for improvement in horizontal directional drilling. Even so, he said, benefits at present far outweigh its costs.


Human beings may listen to recordings of the noise taken before and after the city’s wooden attempt at noise reduction:


Channel 10 edited the video tape to make it appear that the city had taken “reasonable” steps. The gentleman who made that statement was himself trying to be reasonable, and was disappointed in the editing, especially after hell-on-earth continued.

The longstanding unnecessary and excessive noise was actually permitted by the city against its own ordinance, on the excuse that the construction had to be performed on an emergency basis to save the city from an imminent disaster, of being flooded with sewage. There was no imminent danger of the old sewer main bursting, as can be seen by documents offered to the city commission. This was simply another rush-to-construction project performed in accord with the Mayor Philip Levine’s “Get It Done” mission. Mayor Levine is a wealthy developer and public relations mogul. His public relations program represents him as a sort of messiah come to save the city from global warming.


Decibel levels were decreased by the wooden response to the complaints, but levels were still unacceptable. Imaging that you had to listen to this racket every day of the week for weeks on end.



Clinton Pal Runs Roughshod Over Miami Beach

Miami Beach Officials Violate Civil Right to Freedom from Noise

South Beach Horizontal Drilling Noise Makes Mortal Enemies

The Phenomenal South Beach Sewer Pullback

The Licensed Marriage of Two South Beach Sewer Pipes

Blame the Mud Man

Reaming and Swabbing the Amazing South Beach Redundant Sewer Tunnel

Interview With Horizontal Drilling Expert John English

Interview With Miami Construction Kingpin David Mancini

The Amazing Drilling of the South Beach Redundant Sewer

Sara Mosher Listens

Sara Mosher

Just what is it about Sara Mosher that makes her so perspicacious? Why does she have such an incredible insight into other people?  What is the secret of her success in that regard?

Of course, many of you have not heard of Sara Mosher. You do not have the slightest idea of who she is. Nevertheless, you are probably interested in knowing how anyone can gain an intimate knowledge of other people, even of complete strangers, in a short period of time.

Who is Sara Mosher? She is a woman I encountered on one of the electronic magazine web sites that provides anyone who wants to write with a virtual writer’s community. Those sites now enjoy growing popularity due to the accelerated decline of the art of personal conversation in our society, which favors remote, impersonal means of communication. Ironically, it is the very absence of adequate personal relations that attracts many people to the remote means of communication alienating them.

Be that as it may, the virtual community of writers on several of the latest electronic magazine sites can now communicate with each other by means of a comment facility or “box” provided at the end of each article, or by an email facility. That is how Sara Mosher appeared in my life, in the form of comments appended to several of my almost insufferable existential tracts I had published on an ezine site. I lamented in those tracts that only one person read my work, my alter ego. Sara commented that I now had two readers. Thus rendered curious, I looked her name up on the site  I read her posted profile and a few of her articles. She lives in Canada, I found out, and is a competitive speaker by virtue of the Toastmasters’ organization. Her articles are usually inspirational; however, she is not one of those “positive mental attitude” fanatics: she has her down-side, and she is willing to show it if she thinks it might do some good: it is good to know inspired people are human beings!

One thing that I immediately noticed about Sara is that she has an knack for sizing people up accurately with a few choice words, as if she has an acute insight into what makes people tick. At first I thought her ability was uncanny, or due to woman’s intuition, so to speak, since we do not call it witchcraft any more. But, on second thought, after I had observed her “operations” for awhile, I discovered her secret, a secret operation that can be employed regardless of gender or occult inclination– although women, in order to survive in a man’s world, have cultivated it more than men.

Sara Mosher listens.

Not only does Sara write, she roams far and wide to read other writer’s works, always hoping to find another good author to study. She is not a “scanner” or a “surfer” with a short attention span who is always anxious to proceed to the next click no matter where she is at present. She does not preoccupy herself with trash, but she does actually read the articles that interest her, going so far as to print them out and review them several times if need be. It is no wonder she knows what is going on with people.

But of course! Sara is a speaker. She must therefore be, first and foremost, a listener. How does one learn to speak except by listening? And when speakers speak publicly in debate, or engage in mutual criticism to perfect their art, they had better listen very intently to what other people are saying, or they are going to make fools of themselves and lose every argument.

Furthermore, to be excellent speakers, each speaker must find and listen carefully to the best speaker around and do so at length. Only an imbecile would run around from worse to worst. Without developing a good ear by that means, no one will be able to speak well. The conditions to hear a good speech must be there for it to be heard as such.

The same can be said about reading and writing. One must be able to read well in order to write well. But speaking has the advantage of spontaneity and of immediate feedback in forms that are not apparent in writing, hence a speaker can work his audience to better advantage.

Now that we are all writers with equal access to unedited and immediate publication in an electronic magazine, sometimes it seems that very little serious reading or listening occurs. When I first read the comments to my own articles, it was apparent that many of them did not even appertain to what I had said. My articles had not even been read, or only one or two sentences here or there had been hurriedly scanned: one commentator even said, “I have scanned the first part of your article, and I must say that you are wrong, and you should…etc.”

I also received extensive critical comments from people who obviously had no education in critical theory, but were simply parroting things they had heard in school. I realized many of the writers had come to my articles not to read them but just to write something, perhaps having nothing worthwhile to develop on their own pages. Of course, since writers on the open ezine sites are paid for “hits”, many are just out hustling business, leaving their signatures, commenting “wonderful”, “great”, “excellent”, “good job”, everywhere they go, hoping to draw hits their way. As if a real author would go about reading other people’s books to get them to read his own!

What seems to be going on with the new electronic magazines is everyone is writing at the same time and only a few people like Sara Mosher are really reading. Everyone is shouting for attention and nobody is listening. Nobody really cares about content quality, and some people could care even less whether they are heard or not as long as they get plenty of hits.

People are given two ears to listen and only one mouth to talk, yet too many of us spend more time talking than listening. Hence we are confronted with noise, with everyone trying to shout and write every else down, until some fanatic shouts the loudest and the others follow him right down the drain–yet again.

Yes, down the drain, a dangerous and unnatural course indeed. A hundred people can hear one speaker but one person cannot hear a hundred speakers. Nature gives priority to listening before speaking, and listening well. Listening to what is most important is urgent, is a matter of life and death in the long run. Yet in our vanity more of us want to speak than to listen, to write than to read, until nobody is heard or read, much to their own detriment and to that of our cultures and civilizations.

That very tendency to social disaster is why the appearance of a perspicacious Canadian woman named Sara Mosher inspired me with hope. Imagine that! Someone who actually listens! She lets you know she is listening by quoting you back and by admiring your strongest points. And sometimes she just listens, period. What a wonderful relief that is.

Ah, but blabbermouth that I am, I’m afraid I’ve given away Sara’s secret to everyone who happens to be listening. And that is why I would not last long in the cosa nostra.


The Ozone 2000

Compassion Zone Putas Downtown Kansas City


There are putas from time to time in the Compassion Zone, barely two blocks away from the historic Metropolitan Kansas City Police Headquarters.
Last winter I encountered ‘Pedro’ near the Diamond Shamrock. He was panhandling while his puta worked a customer in the big back seat of his dilapidated Lincoln. He also uses the car to deal drugs at the gas pumps from time to time. Maybe he has been busted or went somewhere else more lucrative as I have not seen him around for awhile. But there are usually a puta or two available at any time on the next block east, at the Cherry Inn Motel.
Besides Pedro’s puta, I perceived a plethora of virtual putas inside the Shamrock one Sunday morning – I dropped by at 7 o’clock as usual to buy a cup of coffee, a chocolate muffin, a copy of the Sunday paper. The store was deserted but for the cashier and a grizzly old fellow, who was warming up under the pretense of shopping – on Sunday, people do not drift into the Shamrock from the shelters and half-way houses to get their whiskey and play the numbers until around 9 o’clock.
A man, poorly dressed, short, with black hair, about thirty years of age, burst into the store in an agitated state.
“Call the police! I’ve been mugged!”
“Where?” asked the cashier.
“Right outside! Right there! A Mexican guy mugged me.”
“I’m a Mexican too,” the clerk responded – I thought the Mexican references were rather odd.
“Hurry up, he’ll get away, he took my wallet.”
“I’m calling now,” said the clerk, phone in hand.
“No good to call them, they won’t do anything,” said the grizzly old man, butting in. “I’m an Indian, veteran of the Korean war….”
“You don’t know nothing. You aren’t the police,” said the Mexican.
“I’m an Indian and a veteran of the Korean War, and I’m telling you, it does no good to call the police here, they won’t help you even if they come,” the Indian declared.
“Leave me alone, puta!” the Mexican was getting really hot under the collar.
“Don’t you call me a puta, you puta!” yelled the Indian.
“Puta!” the Mexican yelled and spit on the floor.
“Puta!” the Indian responded.
The cashier spoke to the police and hung up the phone. The angry exchange between the Mexican and the Indian continued, but it did not phase the cashier one bit. It was an ordinary event for the Shamrock in the Compassion Zone. That’s why we refer to it fondly as the S—- rock. It’s the only place open when the sidewalks are rolled up and almost everybody goes back to the burbs after work. Some people who live in the area want it torn down since it attracts vagrants and predators. As far as I’m concerned, it should stay, more people should move into the area, more stores should be opened up, and maybe the cops will look after the neighborhood around their headquarters then.
Anyway, having had enough of the childish but amusing exchange, I left behind another flurry of hot putas and exited into the frigid morn.

April 29, 2004
Downtown Kansas City, Missouri

The Metaphysical Truth About The Indivisible Nation

Indivisible Nation

During war the indivisibility of a nation is considered necessary for its survival. Even during brief intervals of peace the United States pledge of allegiance is to one nation indivisible under an indivisible personal god.

An indivisible nation is an invisible nation, for once we proceed to analyze it, it falls apart into its various attributes. Much to the chagrin of absolutists, those attributes might be nations unto themselves, having disagreement in the differences among them. What is required by higher authority is the unconditional love for the nation regardless of its predicates – united, we stand, divided, we fall. But when we deduct the national predicates to find the nature of the being we are to love, we find nothing, at least nothing visible.

The indivisible nation has its being in negation. It cannot stand anything in contrast to it, and would negate all differences in the absolute equality of its love. That is, the indivisible nation loves to hate differences to it both within and without. Its hate becomes most visible in the violent divisiveness of war. The unconditional love of the indivisible nation demands absolute, unconditional obedience; not only is it the negation of definite groups of people, but also of the definite, independent individual.

In the final analysis the nation is not a thing but is an abstraction that cannot be seen except in name or in the awful truth that it does not exist as such. Therefore, lest we be discouraged and lose our faith in our indivisible nation, we should refrain from looking around for some concrete evidence of its existence: “Don’t bother”, we are told by authority, “for what can be seen perishes and is subject to illusion, but the indivisible nation is unseen and eternal, therefore ye must have patriotic faith.” If we do bother to scrutinize the vague and ambiguous concept of national indivisibility, the veil falls and we see particular human beings whose motives are no more divine than the instincts of apes. No, the reality of the indivisible nation must not be questioned, for then we would have no metaphysical ground to stand on, and even worse, no land of our own!

Nevertheless, as responsible citizens and lovers of universal truth, people have at least some small duty to courageously analyze the nation without fear that their analysis will leave them without a leg to stand on. We might assume that an indivisible nation exists in some other form than an empty word or incomprehensible nothingness, and then beat around the bushes to see what sort of game we come up with. We shall probably arrive at the conclusion embedded in our premises.

There is nothing like Nothing




I was fully committed to a Sunday of absolute rest today, but no sooner had I started to do nothing than I was distracted by the memory of the blasphemy I had just encountered over my morning coffee. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing on Sunday is akin to starting a diet after the next piece of cake. Neither eternal peace or starvation is really wanted.

Yes, the distraction was blasphemy in my case, of the sort that might lead one to conclude that life is really worth living after all, whether or not one is eating cake. It was blasphemous in the technical sense, that Nothing was used against Nothing to prove that Nothing does not exist. And this I was confronted with after making it perfectly clear, in my How-To essay, ‘How To Do Absolutely Nothing on Sundays’, that one must be Nothing in order to do nothing, upon which it should follow that Nothing indubitably exists.

I was unsuspectingly led into sin by a book, namely Professor R.B. Collingwood’s AN ESSAY ON METAPHYSICS. It was the ‘Revised Edition with The Nature of Metaphysical Study, Function of Metaphysics in Civilization, Notes for an Essay on Logic,’ published by Clarendon Press (1998), at Oxford, of course!

First of all, let me explain why I had this heretical book in my possession. I had overheard some gossip that Professor Collingwood discovered something called the Four Forms of Experience. Each form is a mistake corrected by its successors, in this order: Art, Religion, Science, History. I have heard of all sorts of orders; I was not surprised that History came out on top this time inasmuch as the professor, who died in 1943, was, first and foremost, a historian. Yes, history was everything for him. You may have heard of his Three Doctrines:

1. Mental creations must be studied historically, not psychologically;
2. Historical knowledge is attainable;
3. History and philosophy are a unity.

The good professor invested nearly his entire professional life in Oxford, where he was the only surviving disciple of the great Romano-British archeologist, F.J. Haverfield. And Professor Collingwood was a fine archeologist in his own right, highly respected for his ability to interpret his own as well as other people’s excavations. In fact he succeeded where others conformed; he was not afraid to make mistakes, to create hypotheses to be challenged, knowing very well that truth is often found in bed with error. From the many bits and pieces of academic gossip I picked up about him, I gathered the impression that he was a tolerant man, one who would read a book about absolutely nothing simply to see if there was some truth in it.

Well, to each his own, I thought, as I read the academic chatter. Someone said Professor Collingwood had gone so far as to claim that his Four Forms of Experience were all mistakes, and there existed a Fifth, comprehensive Form, which was error-free yet had no content of its own. Nothing exists? My ears perked up at that! One of the professor’s students rendered this hearsay:

“The truth is not some perfect system of philosophy: it is simply the way in which all systems, however perfect, collapse into nothingness on the discovery that they are only systems.”

There it was again, I thought, Nothing! For, if systems collapse into nothingness, Nothing exists! The unsystematic philosophy of Nothing is the key to everything! Therefore I eagerly scooped up the professor’s ‘An Essay’ to peruse this Sunday morning over my one-hundred percent Kona coffee. I opened it up to Chapter I, ‘Aristotle’s Metaphysics.’

If we are to understand “metaphysics”, then we must understand its history, Professor Collingwood proposed. To understand its history we must understand Aristotle’s motive for bringing it up. So far so good. What was ‘metaphysics’ to Aristotle? Nothing. He did not even use the term. His editors used it to identify certain treatises they placed after the physics; hence “metaphysics” is the name of the last book. Aristotle addressed three obscurities in the works constituting the book we call his ‘sciences’ of metaphysics: First Science, Wisdom, Theology.

The First Science is the study of everything logically prior to all the other sciences, the Science of sciences – although we work up to it from the bottom of the pyramid, it is first because it is the apex, point, arch, the principle of everything that follows.

Wisdom is the under-standing that all sciences want within their respective disciplines.

Theology has the ultimate goal of everything logically presupposed in the First Science, and is therefore present as the principle or arch (archos – chief) of all sciences; namely, to use a barbarism, ‘God.’

All three sciences are actually a unity under cover of three names. We reason from the particular to the general and from general to particular in the inductive-deductive process. We generalize our experience and act accordingly, correcting our mistakes as we progress up the mountain, forming better and broader generalizations that apply to all the slopes below, and across the plains and to the circular horizon below. Naturally, the universal laws we discover on our ascent are presumed to exist prior to our climb.

There is one pyramid of universals. Thus metaphysics is considered to be the general science of universals, the science of Pure Being found at the summit.

My heart leapt at this Aristotelian process of generalization paraphrased by Professor Collingwood, whose paraphrasing I have paraphrased. Having led me to the summit, I felt he would, in full faith, bear witness for his students and take the magnificent leap into Nothing!

Alas, was I ever disappointed. I had put on Richard Strauss’ ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’, refilled my coffee mug, and turned the page to behold the professor’s title to his second Roman-numerated chapter, II: ‘NO SCIENCE OF PURE BEING!” (emphasis and exclamation-mark added).

By Gum! that should never be said on Sunday, my day to practice doing absolutely nothing. For Nothing is Pure Being. To say there is no science of Pure Being is to say Pure Being cannot be known: what good is it to do absolutely nothing and not know it? And even worse: if there is no theoretical science, then there is no practical technology, so there is no way to do absolutely nothing. Since it is necessary to be Nothing to do absolutely nothing, Nothing must exist, therefore Nothing must be known by doing absolutely nothing. Surely the professor is pulling my leg, I reconsidered, so I went on to read:

“(Aristotle) was aware that when the process of abstraction is pushed home to the limiting case and arrives at the summit of the pyramid, the thought which has effected this new abstraction and might seem, therefore, to stand upon the threshold of a new science, the science of pure being, stands in a situation not quite like the situations out of which ordinary sciences arise. The situation in which it stands is in certain important ways unprecedented and unique, and it is a debatable question how far and in what sense anything that arises out of it ought to be called a science.”

Now, then, looking down on the dirty details from our lofty elevation, our teacher wants to cavil instead of leaping faithfully into the Nothing; he wants to pause and hold debates about the “facts”, I supposed. He steps back from the precipice to inform us that there are two conditions for a legitimate science: first of all, there must be orderly thinking; two, there must be a definite subject-matter. He claims that “the science of pure being would have a subject-matter entirely devoid of peculiarities; a subject-matter, therefore, containing nothing to differentiate it from anything else, or from nothing at all.”

But there it is again! Nothing! He fails to observe that Nothing is precisely the non-dimensional, unique, all-encompassing pointless point, the very principle of the space-time continuum. He fails to observe there is nothing like Nothing! Furthermore, Nothing is the perfectly undifferentiated identity of the proposition [Nothing=Nothing], the equation that simultaneously expresses absolutely minimal differentiation. Moreover, and this is as plain as Day: Nothing is All abstracted from All-rushing to All-fulfillment in the Vacuum not abhorred but loved by All. But what does our Oxford man have to say about abstraction? This:

“Abstraction means taking out. But science investigates not what is taken out but what is left in. To push abstraction to the limiting case is to take out everything; and when everything is taken out there is nothing for science to investigate.”

But he has missed the capital point entirely. There is not ‘nothing’ to investigate: there is Nothing to investigate, and there is nothing like Nothing, for Nothing exists! He goes on to say:

“You may call this nothing by what name you like – pure being, or God, or anything else – but it remains nothing, and contains no peculiarities for science to examine.”

Well then, may that sordid “science” keep its dirty hands off!

At first I suspected the doctor of duplicitous ambiguity; perhaps intolerance was forcing Oxford dons to resort to coded ambiguities to maintain tenure. But on further reading it does not seem so, when he directly states:

“This is only a roundabout way of saying that there can be no such science. There is not even a quasi-science of pure being: not even a thing which in certain ways resembles an ordinary science and in certain ways differs from it… There is not even a pseudo-science of pure being: not even a collection of what seems to be statements but are in fact only the record of guesses, intellectual gropings or emotional reactions that take place within us when we confront an object we do not understand.”

Now, then, I hope I have not quoted at too great a length without authorization from the authorities; I do not believe so, for in order for blasphemy to be exposed, it must be quoted freely for the Public Good.

I would go on to read Professor Collingwood’s third chapter, ‘III. Metaphysics Without Ontology’, where I presume he is going to throw the being of nothingness out of metaphysics, but my stereo has traversed the peaks with Zarathustra and gone through most of ‘Ein Heldenleben’ (A Hero’s Life), to that sweet pasture where I am starting to relax to the point when-where I can do absolutely nothing without even trying.

Finally, now that I have calmed down somewhat, I am beginning to think that Professor Collingwood really meant Nothing when he said “nothing”, for otherwise he has employed Nothing against itself, which would be blasphemy, a mortal sin good professors  would certainly avoid. No doubt he knows that ignorance is the necessary precondition for all knowledge, that Nothing is the font of all that is, and that all his statements about the science of Pure Being prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, since there is nothing to obstruct the reason, that Nothing exists. Therefore as the music ends with a muffled thumping of a heart beat, the simple motif of its theme, I retire into the Silence.



My South Beach Wigga Rap for Adults Only


I had never heard the word “wigga” until Doc Hanley pronounced it in the car after he saved me from Ft. Lauderdale. l had landed there two days before Hurricane Jeanne blew in. My hotel reservation had been deleted because I was illegally bumped for someone willing to pay a higher rate. A cab driver took me to a decrepit motel, in what is euphemistically called the “inner city,” where I was able to rent one of the last rooms available. 

It was an interesting place. Russian “exchange students” posing as maids were the center of attraction, especially when they swam nude in the scum-laden pool as the storm whipped up. The lights went out, and people from the hood surrounding the motel were knocking on the doors, asking for money, cigarettes, food, whatever could be spared. 

So Doc, a veteran SEAL, bailed me out after the eye of the hurricane passed by. I asked him what in the world a “wigga” meant as we waited in line at a gas station. He pointed out a white man who was vacuuming out his car as rap music blared from inside the car, rattling the vehicle as if it were a tin can. The man had his pants pulled way down in back, showing black boxers with big pink polka dots. 

“That’s a wigga,” he said. 


“A white nigga. 


I had never heard of such a thing. I was a small town “inner city” guy myself. That would be Topeka (“a good place to grow potatoes”). I ran with the Mexicans from the other side of the tracks back then. My good friend, a black kid named Clifford Taylor, with whom I liked to wrestle, lived across the street. My very best friend was Jim Norton, a Mormon boy who wound up having two wives. The worst trouble Clifford, Jim and I got in was for peeing in the finger paint pots at school. 

I had the run of Topeka. I liked to visit Roy, an older black fellow who lived near the Capitol. He and his wife drank orange juice and whisky with breakfast on Sundays. I did not know any racists, but I guess there was plenty of racism in Topeka because sometimes I saw groups of black people marching around the neighborhood near Topeka High School singing “We Shall Overcome,” and I heard something about a Board of Education case that had the word “brown” in it. 

Long story short, I eventually ran away to Chicago when I was thirteen, where a black cook took me in and saved me from starving. He had a dozen white boys in his South Side crib. He turned out to be a pederast, so I hit the streets again. Fortunately I was taken in by a gay couple who kept their hands off me, and they kept me supplied with food and vodka and orange juice. I got a job, and then my very own crummy room in a Puerto Rican neighborhood. I eventually moved on to Manhattan. There were so many black people around my “inner city” “salt and pepper” hoods that I did not think in black and white, but rather in blurry terms. 

The blacks called me “grey boy.” They were more or less sophisticated, though some were pimps and drug dealers. I asked one of them about the “N-word” the rappers were using, why black people would use that word if it was demeaning, something whites put on them. 

“New York blacks are not niggers,” said one city slicker. “Niggers are ignorant Southern blacks. 

“Niggers can call each other niggers,” another said, “and throw it back with pride at white people, but coming from whites it is an insult. 

I was not even inclined to use the so-called N-word. I did enjoy it mouthed by Ice-T when he got popular. Rappers I noticed liked to use the “B-word,” which I thought was insulting to females in general unless they were the ones using it. 

Well, Miami, as everyone knows, is notorious for racism. I saw the riots on TV years ago. And I had lived in South Beach in the late Sixties, where I learned that blacks must be off the beach at sundown or else. Things have changed. Not many blacks live on the beach, but they like to come over from the Mainland and hang out. And thousands swarm to the beach for Memorial Day and Spring Break. The troublemakers among them are mostly from South Florida. 

I thought of Doc, may he rest in peace, when I passed by a Washington Avenue tattoo parlor shortly after I arrived. A heavily tattooed white man, with pants pulled down, and a black fellow sporting lots of bling, were chatting by the doorway. During the course of their exchange, wherein every fifth word was the F-word, the black man addressed the white guy as “nigga” several times, and I noticed that when he did so the white guy’s face lit up with delight. 

“Wow,” I thought, “that is what Doc was talking about. The fellow is a wigga for sure. And the black man is playing him. 

Now I do not like to use vulgar language unless I am really angry and lose control, and even then I do not use racist terms as I was not raised early on in that climate. Still I believed the meaning of wigga should be memorialized, so I put on my Nicki Minaj album yesterday and jotted down the following: 

(Sample Lyric by Grey Boy)


Chorus and Wigga in front of Washington Avenue tattoo parlor, Duck Tours bus passing by, Wigga has pants way down and has big slice of pizza


Hey, hey, looka you, looka you
White boy, wigga now, wigga now, 
You a South Beach wigga boy now, 
Wigga wigga bona fide boy,
What you say now (what you say now) 


I say fuckada fuck fuck fuck! 
I’m a fuckin South Beach wigga! 
Looka me now South Beach Duck Tours, 
Go fuck a duck, I’m a wigga now, 
Fucka ducka fucka ducka


Hey, hey, looka you, looka you
White boy nigga now, wigga now, 

You a South Beach wigga boy now,
Wigga nigga bona fide boy, 

What you say now (what you say now) 


I ain’t afraid (I ain’t afraid) 
I got my piece (I got my piece) 
I got my slice (I got my slice) 
I’m a wigga (I’m a wigga) 
I’m a fuckin South Beach wigga
I’m a pants down wigga nigga, 
On the fuckin beach with bitches
Grabbin my crotch (grabbin my crotch) 
Saying fuckety fuckety fuck, 
I’ve got it made (I’ve got it made) 
I ain’t afraid (I ain’t afraid) 
I got my slice, I got my piece, 
I got bitches, I got bitches, 
They got their tits I got my tats, 
Fuckin white boys go fuck yourselves
I got it all, I got it all, 
I’m the man now, I’m the man now, 
Fucka ducka fuckety fuck
I’m a wigga, I’m a wigga


Hey, hey, looka you, looka you
White boy, nigga now, wigga now, 
You a South Beach wigga boy, 
Wigga nigga bona fide boy
You a nigga toy, wigga boy!