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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: The Abduction and Rape of CJ Parker
Date: Tue,  3 Oct 2000 07:10:01 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com  (Poetry updated 9/24/00)

TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.

TxM6 Hyperfiction Novel 0224X CJ Parker News
The Sentinel: Bergen County's First Newspaper
Gadfly Special Report: The Victim CJ Parker

The 'BERGEN SENTINEL': Peter Campbell: the Gadfly.

"The days of man are shallow and the wings of woman
fragile. That insane statement is no longer true.
We are indeed witnesses for a new mankind. Vengeance
no longer will suffice to clean up the sorrow. It is
our time and now we heal death."
                                    --The Gadfly

GADFLY NEWS FLASH: "Notes on an 'almost' Murder."

After three months of reconstructive surgery and
physical therapy, CJ Parker begins today her new life
outside the walls of Englewood Hospital. Unfairly
imprisoned by the blows and consequences of a brutal
beating by the Genesis killer, Abel, CJ resumes life.

CJ quoting William Pierson Evers says, "forget terror,
resume the struggle to live. Pain like all our senses
endures every historical page. Boundaries lock while
the safety net of escape falls down.

There are no boundaries to pain. We suffer all its
responsible mysteries. Just like mountains we cannot pass
through filled space broken by the dark ache we feel but
can not longer shift as invisible rivers.

Evers, CJ continues, "The mind creates its own
prisons, and then we, in our pursuit of "mercy" stamp
new prisons inside the old. These new places are steel,
iron, wood and gold. CJ shifted her face as she talked,
turning away. Using her camera CJ points at the latest
burst of light hanging on the shadows of her rooms. What
lovely flames, CJ says. I hope I have caught a whimsical
horizon inside quiet sunsets.

"Beauty emerges at sunrise," Evers said. Every next day
will be more inviting. Turning her back CJ checks out the
thin black whir of the infernal engine; photography riding
a motorized Nikon screams NO MAS. I agree and have banished
the photographer as eager shutter snapper. CJ, a great
photographer does map the world every day for human purposes.
CJ did say at the end of that Sunday, "How will I see again
after that beating, she planned her life assuming she would
see again. And if not, she would see anyway.

"Life is a page and each conflict or resolution is another
paragraph," Evers also said. CJ's wounds will heal. The memory
of pain dissipates. Suffering will cut deeply through beguile
margins and human flaws we once displayed. Now we avoid and
sometimes disremember their horrible placements and issues.

Murder's fangs dangle from a perfect cloud. It might drag
civilization through its own undertow. If CJ had not taken
those first steps to stop her social suffering, she would
probably not have survived that personal holocaust.

Returning to her life as a heroin addict and prostitute, CJ
would have become invisible in the terror of the last decade.

After being beaten "I will learn new drives to remake my sense
of touch," CJ commented.

Yet, each "I" she uttered was the domain, and her range,
a limit chosen, fit the metaphor for her skin (water and air)
and the metaphor for body (earth and heaven). What wild
progressions. What simple language for the easement of
pain and the confusion of that loss of self to accompany rage.

CJ was a body and her name composed her spirit like
immiscible layers of petro-chemicals and essential
aromatic oils. We are the ambergris to fix the perfume
with its intent. Temperature and pressure inconsistent,
disheveled. Adulterants cleansed. Waste masked. Scent
unexpected. The thing held by her, as she struck for
questions is the marrow of her first books: barely
legible words and exaggerated colors. The image is a
tide, another exosphere with no markers and no clues.

CJ became the perfect mystery designed to wait or played
as record repeating the entries and exits. When I watched
CJ I, counted her smiles. After the first thousand, no
hyperbole would work nor parchment last. Not even Book
of Durrow or Kells knew a grammar or syntax of her first book.

What holy cloth are you or I. Do we design it or does it,
as we choose what we wear, affects the chart of rivers after
all floods. We are all first books complicated by the
indelicate weather. We are a terrible mixture of terror and
pleasure, truth and disbelief. What we create, we divine,
so CJ spoke as a prophet within her gospel.

CJ gave time and made good work a duty that opened her
to whatever raised the sails or skipped over the planet
as a future storm, as lines charted between stars, or the
simple scrawl of a name parked within the toy garage by a
five year old stretching her breath across his ancestors
and progeny to appear and then decline, erased, withered,
ashes to ashes, intrigue to philosophy to uncertainty or
somewhat better.

Her spirit is not simple. It has many faces that change
like the colors of a prism held up like a conch shell even
though the gastropods exoskeleton is not transparent or
even music. Sound is not light, of course, and reason, logic,
the mixture of what is and what would be can step out from
the curb like a murderer to stop progress, pleasure,
deny spirit.

CJ was not disemboweled by the "the Genesis Killer,"
(a name whipped up by the media moguls as a headline
above Buddha's knee or Christ's cross to sell copy.
We are inquisitive even unto murder and its agent.
We can deny our fixation, but we can't walk away, and
when justice, or Job, or the miracle are caught and
dissolved with the acid or one lie.

CJ claimed her renewal, bred it, nurtured, and longed
for its progress. It stopped not by her cause, but by
accident or fate, by the misery we consult (wear on
our sleeve). We are part of the same part of a man who
photographed mayhem like Hitler's doctors argued
history and medicine before the crematoriums.

We cannot deny it. Fused inexplicable. How can a
woman, who is hurt, healed, then hurt again, become a
woman who forgets pain?

Sentiments are transparent veils set in complex layers
of skin. They settled over our mouth conforming to the
mask. What about the ideal form? What happens to it?
Each mood turns, and each commitment marks as word or
eye lifts or lowers as the hand when it dances as a
sinuous reed.

He then photographed and video taped what he called
his "assemblage." He saw himself as a conceptual
artist. He would put the victim on her back packaged
in two plastic bags for disposal. The first was clear,
and the second dark green and opaque.

CJ had once been a hooker and drug addict. Of course,
the police knew the everyday minutia of her life, but
they also knew that she had survived when other drug
addicts had not. Why had he spared her? What changed
the pattern? Could there be two potential murders.

They also knew she would be reluctant to give up his
name. By CJ's survival and attitude and dress, the
police believed CJ could have possibly been the target
of the Frankenstein serial murderer. He stalked,
captured, raped, murdered, and then butchered the
unfortunate women and two men. How did he differ from
the other Sociopath?

What the police did not know was that the rapist knows
his victims, and CJ although, clean for six months,
had once been a hooker and a $1000 a day heroin addict.
She had, like many of this earth's vagabonds hung as
they say at the Gables, the one watering hole in NJ
where folks could just be. Being alone is a luxury, CJ
said. My friends from the Gables Pub never ask
questions. I tell them all they need to know. If there
is more, they ignore it. That's the worst of it.
Imagine, not trusting anyone. Nobody. Never again
being able to just say what's happening. That's the
worst part I don't remember whom. I can't see his
face. Can't hear his voice. I feel his body. It was
hard, tall, strong, and I felt so powerless, I did
what I did, when I worked the streets, I changed my
thought, and worked him, and fearing if I stayed
passive, and he would become more violent. What I
didn't realize, and could never have known, was that
by acting I must have scared him. He never expected,
not even from a hooker, any reaction. I fooled him. I
pretended to come, and heard him and then it gets
weird, her, scream. Two people. A man and a woman, and
then someone hit my head, and everything is blank.
Conceivably, my shroud saved my life.

This last part comes under the heading: Life is not
fair. When the Detectives ran her name, and she came
up dirty, CJ was no longer an innocent victim of a
serious crime, she was a "perp" earning suspicion, and
vulnerable to the usual mind games from all sides.

Drug users, Pushers, Police, pimps, Johns, family all
had an edge. Whatever the game, CJ, was a perfect victim.

There's so much to do in life. CJ thinks of all the
money, time, and joy that had been lost. Towards what
end, she laughed, cynically, uncertain. Did I do
anything to cause my own suffering? No use. Time is
gone. Here's the present. I welcome it.

CJ has been off Methadone for about eighteen months.
She says, "one start; two at least. More to follow."
And, of course, the compulsive romantic, "One day at a
time."

She authorized the following statement for publication.
She wants to thank you for your words of encouragement
and the faith you inspired by your "thoughtfulness"
and this may surprise you, "your criticism and misdirected
anger. The word, "misdirected," is mine- not CJ Parker's

One starts at least. More to follow, and, of course, I
am the compulsive romantic. You never can truly escape
your family and that romance that Freud projected. You
can be aware of it and use it, and not let it use you.
One day at a time is a popular and effective motto.
But we'll see- you may think I'm crazy for saying
this. My survival has shown to me the incredible value
of life. A clich , I know. But everyday expressions
can express every moment, a new truth. I may have been
almost murdered, and in those moments before death, I
saw, that the end is just one possible end, and it was
beautiful, radiant, but only one possible final
chapter, like a last photograph in a long collection,
it suggest a theme, or a unity- but not the Hindu
nirvanas. (The state of absolute blessedness
characterized by release from the cycles of
reincarnations and attained through the extinction of
the self.)

Nirvana may suggest a unity with the godhead, Brahma,
but it also (and this is what chills) requires the
suppression of individual existence. I want life and
not promises. Existence is what is, no less. Had too
many empty ones so far along in my short life.
Promises that were not kept even by the so-called
"good guys." Yet, I am an optimist. You can't imagine
my new agenda. I almost don't. It seems so absurd when
I contrast it to what I have experienced with men. But
there is a condition. I want to know for my remaining
life time, one good man and have with him, if I am
still able, 2.3 children, and live to 199 years and
die in the arms of my husband or great great great
great grandchildren. My longevity is, of course,
hyperbole. But for the other, think I have a chance? I
believe I do. Perhaps, Peter Jackson is available.
Only kidding. I may be demented after all.

One thing is however certain, what the man and woman
called Abel and Lilith did to my body changed my life.
That unknown that drives us could upset redemption. It
made the peace of my transition to life from the death
of drugs to life, almost invisible and more difficult.
For that, no one should be forgiven. These terrible
and tormented persons should be kept separate from all
living things, as one would an incurable disease causing
virus. Ironically, today, I will continue to not walk away
from spiritual pleasure no matter how great the risk.
I will not let a Sociopath disease take away my
choices, and the pleasures and disappointments
involved in making decisions. Is it yes or no? Choose.
Wonderful. Pleasure. Enrichment.

The processes that lead from facts, intuition, feelings
that leads to alternatives, derive from the power of the
spirit working through the body, and not the reverse.

It doesn't come from drugs, indiscriminate fucking, or
any work that knowingly harms people including you.

While I live, from now on, I will be certain that joy
I practice is a pleasure I return, and then I, as spirit
and flesh, will be preserved. My good works, Luther not
withstanding, will preserve my soul."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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