Who Murdered Butterfly Dancer

By J. Charles Harris

As a young man Jon Charles Harris sought guidance for his life by fasting for four days in the spiritual silence of mountains, searching for a sign. Although he did not know it then, he did find his answer when a butterfly visited him. He preferred a visit from a wolf but he got a butterfly; the butterfly talked but Harris did not understand. Little did he know what this visit really meant and how butterflies would become important to him, and in that moment, unbeknownst to him, his life started to change. And now, with Who Murdered Butterfly Dancer, J Charles Harris offers readers a chance to see what Butterfly Dancer taught Harris about what the butterfly said that Harris did not understand.

A reader may see that what is often taught as incorruptible knowledge that should be enforced with perpetual tradition is not what Love is giving us a chance to do: to become the intention of the creation you were made to be. Just as young Harris himself changed when Butterfly Dancer visited him and asked him to understand “love me as I am,” Or a reader may be trying to express their true self within a community they fear will reject them, or, on the other side of that coin, may be trying to accept and have compassion for a member of their community they did not previously embrace.

Those who challenge themselves to read this book, who dare themselves to consider possibilities outside what they have known, will discover what all explorers find when they persist: treasure

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977272300

Book preview

Who Murdered Butterfly Dancer

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2024 J Charles Harris

v1.0

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

One after another a series of poisoned people kidnapped truth and piled contaminated judgment like a living tower of Jenga until the creation of folly tumbled from cellophane heaven and buried the Butterfly Dancer somewhere beyond oblivion’s point of no return.

--The Witness

To Oatsie Halla de Garcia because of you I am.

To Butterfly Dancer: quietly you lived, you never spoke a bitter word. You never displayed your broken heart. Never did you display the bruises made by the pounding fists of stupidity that surely tore you apart but now I will speak for you. I can’t wait to see you again.

--The Witness, in the name of love

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One: THE WHISPERS

Chapter Two: DID GOD SPEAK

Chapter Three: TODAY’S PAIN TOMORROW THE SAME

Chapter Four: GRAQUEENA

Chapter Five: THE DAY OF THE TIGER

Chapter Six: I WAS WHO WAS I

Chapter Seven: A TREE AND ITS SHADOW

Chapter Eight: LOVE AND SOMETHING ELSE

Chapter Nine: GOD CREATED SCIENCE

Chapter Ten: TRUE STORIES AND MORE

Chapter Eleven: TO KNOW VS TO BELIEVE

1

THE WHISPERS

I am the voice and witness of Butterfly Dancer. I will tell you the story. At times you might wonder who is talking? Is it the voice of the Butterfly Dancer or the witness? Don’t be confused, the Butterfly Dancer and I are one yet not the same. The witness will never be Butterfly Dancer. The witness tells the story because he was there and he loves the Butterfly Dancer. The voice you hear will be a mixture of Butterfly Dancer and the witness. They are one but not the same. They are different and yet they are the same. Their lives were crossed and combined; they will be together forever. You will have to live with that. Just know that it is all true and when I say I, I speak for the Butterfly Dancer. At the end, you will understand.

It all started when the end of where I once was collapsed and began anew in the summer of 1975, in Fresno, California as I awakened while still buried in enchanted gonadotropin science, hiding in the safety of pregnancy’s psychochemical cocoon from the knowledge that would eventually turn my existence into a dance with the Devil.

Yeah, the old dumbass Devil. Is the Devil real? Some think so, I don’t, but if you do, he’s not who you think she is. When this is all over, we will know who the Devil really is.

Are we born with no awareness? Did I know absolutely nothing of what awaited me while I traveled in my mother’s womb to a new struggle of survival?

After birth, I didn’t tell anyone but I was plagued with flashbacks of unknown origin as though residue from another existence followed me to what some consider the first time we occupy life. Under that pressure, did I see my new tomorrow and didn’t like it as I resisted the nature of what happens next in the mysterious business that we call birth?

When alone in the blackhole that exists my mind, where nothing is everything, I listen to the white noise of vacant awareness, and I feel like I never wanted to be here, like I wasn’t wanted, like I was an alien. That also brings understanding to why I feel that my fingernails were digging into my mother’s flesh as I entered this world that - truth be known - is not what it appears to be. But whatever the reason for my psychic anxiety, nothing changed my beginning or end because inception and its midwife life doesn’t care, and it did what it was supposed to do, squash me out of the hiding place and into the unknown, but I was not ready for that, so I held on to my beautiful hiding place as though my survival depended on my ability to stay in the belly’s matrix. I challenged Mother Nature: never against my will was I going to be terrorized into the mouth of what awaited me…until…I was…terrorized into the mouth of what awaited me.

In love, my mommy’s birth contractions pushed; I fought back; her wish was not mine. Like I’ve tried to explain, I think I was aware of an unwelcomed future before I poked my head into what some would say is the beginning of time. Can you be psychic in the depth of tabula rasa?

With its haunting melody, the song of the Sirens invited me to come, come enter, come out and play. It beckoned me to start the beginning of what I must have known would be my destruction, but temptation could not convince trepidation to obey. Was I aware that I would be born just to be destroyed? Maybe yes. But are we not all brewed for such a destiny? So why was I afraid? Was I afraid? In a few minutes, you might change your mind.

Stubbornly fighting my mother and her stubbornness, we wrestled, and while it is wrapped in fog, I believe I have a memory of it. I could hear doctors talking, and the sound of it became fascinating. The voices sounded like the chanting of ancient tribes, mixed with drumbeats, smothered in distant thunder from beneath a body of water. The reality of it was doctors were blathering something about me trying to turn sideways. Is that what I was doing, turning sideways? Or was I running away?

As hours came and turned into waiting for the inescapable, high in the sky above the San Joaquin Valley, as doctors decided how to force me to give up my hesitancy to give in to