|
Literary Contributions to
2006 Phoenix Exhibit
Phoenix Home
Trilogy - "diamond in
the rough"
Master's Year Poem -
Peter Andersen
Poem
- Ruth Buddington
Poem at 15 - Ruth
Buddington
TM -
Susan J. Crittenden
Dear John - Laura Burton
Stous
House - Laura Burton
Ambivalence - Laura
Burton
Fish Hooks - Jael
Sprinkle
Losing the Way (Excerpt)
- Kristen Skedgell
Donut Man - Diana Pletts
Part 1:
"God loves you" and so do I
"Demons want you" and so do
I
Rapture. Hell. Heaven. Love.
"You are so special, Satan
wants you," and so do I
"Praise the Lord"
Obsessed. Depressed.
Oppressed. Possessed.
Drive the Demons
Cast them out
"You are so special"
"God has a plan"
Afraid to sleep
"Praise the Lord"
Cannot breath
"Praise the Lord"
Bless this room
Cast them out
Pray real hard
"You are special"
"God has a plan"
Cut my arm, but turn to
smile
"Jesus loves me this I
know..."
Part 2:
It is wrong for a man to
touch you
It is wrong for a woman to
desire you
It is wrong that you are
only a child
It is wrong that your
innocence and sense of
wonder are stolen in one
moment
One moment, sometimes
amongst many, that depletes
you of yourself
A raggedy ann doll
A raggedy andy doll
Floppy hair and permanent
smile
Eyes black as coal
So empty. So cold. So
helpless.
"Oh how cute"
"Oh how strong"
"Such a future", "Such a
future"
Oh how sad
Oh how lonely
Oh how shamed
No such future
Only heartbreak
Part 3:
Why Eat?
Why drink?
Why hide?
Loser. Slut. Ugly. Fat.
Eats at your mind
Drinks from your soul
Hiding is safe
Believe the words with all
your heart, for they must be
true
Deep inside where no one
sees
Useless. Dumb. Selfish.
Boring.
Intimate friend says,
"You're so great"
Sinking stomach, racing
heart
Eventually they'll know the
truth
Loser.Slut.Fat.Useless.Dumb.Selfish.Boring.Vain.Moody.Lazy.Irresponsible.Crazy.
Walk away while you still
can.
By "diamond in the rough"
By Peter
Andersen
1996
{With this paralysis around
your soul, you survived each
day, one day at a time. You
did mental contortions to
warp your mind around
political and religious
statements you knew to be
blatantly untrue. You
embraced with intellectual
revulsion, ideas that
screamed of distortion. Day
after day. How did you
survive?}
You were grateful for
Yesterday,
For a day that was past
And that it was past.
For you believed
That your suffering bore,
Or would bear,
Fruit,
Now, or in the future,
For someone,
Somewhere.
Yesterday.
You believed this about
Yesterday,
Because you had to believe
it.
It was the only thing that
made
Today
Even remotely tolerable.
Yesterday.
Another day
Rich in atonement,
Redemption.
Indeed,
Today
Was a Yesterday
In the making.
That thought,
And the thought that
Tomorrow, even horrible
Today would be
A Yesterday:
That
Made today possible.
Tomorrow.
You did not dare
Think long
About Tomorrow.
Today, at least,
Was here,
Concrete, tangible, and
Partially over.
Tomorrow
Was the spectre
Of endless, bleak
Todays.
Tomorrow
Was Today,
Coming at you
With renewed vigour,
And vengeance.
Tomorrow was
Today,
Leaping at you,
Refreshed.
Tomorrow
Was just one
Of that dark spawn of Todays,
That seemed to have
No hope of ceasing;
An infinite brood
always begetting another,
more sinister,
Sibling.
A bleak wasteland of
meaningless days, with
meaningless, menial work,
under the persistently
steel-grey skies of central
Europe. To live, to survive,
you grasped for meaning; you
created meaning amid
senselessness.
^
By Ruth Buddington
I have found my baseline.
Information flows through
you to me like an umbilical
cord.
I want to know the truth
even though it hurts
Cleanse me with pain
Tears wash away the never
ending flow
How many mothers have I had?
But not one
Mother is God in the eyes of
a child
I am truly the seed of an
evil empire
Banished for revealing the
stain
That I am on their
conscience
Hidden from all for fear of
the secret I hold
Promised as a
self-fulfilling prophesy
Where will you run to when
my thunder breaks?
Where will you hide when I
unleash the storm?
Seek cover from the rain
You put me to sleep
But now the spell has been
broken.
And I am fully awake
Poem at Fifteen
by Ruth Buddington
It’s raining, It’s raining
Better run and get inside
It’s pouring, It’s pouring
Got to find a place to hide
No shelter can ever
Shield me from this driving
pain
That’s raining and pouring
From my soul, It’s in my
veins
Its rain, It’s tears, It’s
blood
Pouring out incessantly
Endlessly, merciless
Get away. Don’t end like me.
^
By Susan J. Crittenden
Even this moment makes me
cry,
though it’s been how many
years since I “meditated?”
It’s been 28 years since my
last “meditation!”
I ride the mantra to sleep
at nighttime.
It is like a comfortable car
that brings me to never-neverland.
I’m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m
meditating. Do not disturb
me. I enjoy this evasive
trancelike state. I do not
want to be disturbed. Sure,
I’ll pay attention to you
once my meditation is over,
if I can focus and
if I can feel your
humanness, which I cannot.
I lost that connection when
I took up the mantra, myself
becoming the new center of
my life: a center with no
center. Feelings becoming
the new source interest, I
tried to get beyond that
exasperating feeling that I
was not doing things that I
needed to do. I accepted the
solution to all things:
MEDITATE!
Why did I lose interest in
my artwork so quickly after
beginning?
The years and years of
trying to put a label on the
experience,
and finally, finally,
finally, knowing one day
that IT WAS A CULT!
Every single person I talked
with had a positive image in
their heads about
meditation, TM just being
another brand of this
innocuous thing they had in
their minds.
Oh, the frustration of
trying to convince!
The frustration of knowing
something was not right, yet
not being able to define
that thing. Its’ name seemed
to be deceiving;
transcendental was such a
deep word. Wasn’t meditation
supposed to be thinking, or
realizing? It was not
thinking or realizing.
It was zoning out!
I remember Caroline, who
seemed so smart and
collegiate saying that she
had to go get the potatoes
out of the cellar
immediately after her father
asked her to, because she
could no longer retain the
thought due to her
meditating. We thought that
was a good thing, and that
she was progressed along the
path toward enlightenment.
^
I was a spiritual
prostitute,
giving myself
to any john
who called himself Jesus.
By Lora Burton
2003
I lived in a mental
straightjacket.
I may have had a key to the
apartment,
but she held the key to my
mind.
By Lora Burton
By Lora Burton
Now, on the
9th anniversary of my
realization that the Stous
House was a cult, I am
taking an inventory of the
multitude of feelings I was
experiencing back then. This
list represents the
ambivalent feelings that I
had at some point when
leaving the Stous House.
I’ve tried to be specific
whenever possible as to the
thinking and/or
circumstances generating the
feelings. While feelings are
neither right nor wrong, I
choose to label mine “good
and bad” as in “pleasant and
unpleasant”. As you can see,
the bad feelings far
outweighed the good at a
ratio of 7 to 1. These
feelings may have passed
quickly, or cycled time and
again, and some I still
struggle with today,
although they’re not nearly
as intense as in those days.
BAD FEELINGS
1. Rejected,
abandoned & estranged by the
Stous House and by society –
There were concentric
circles around Anne: Family,
Friends, Foes, Failures.
Anne told everyone I was a
failure because I wouldn’t
do my (psychological) “work”
2. Victimized, hostile,
revengeful
3. Guilty, unfaithful,
disloyal, unappreciative,
ungrateful and bad for
betraying / leaving Anne
after all she had done for
me
4. Rebellious, unruly, out
of line; a deserter, a
runaway, a back stabber, a
traitor
5. Anger and resentment 1)
for being taken advantage of
(i.e.: Anne using my credit
card even after I left), 2)
at losing my identity, 3) at
not being allowed to think
for myself, 4) at Anne for
fostering dependence rather
than independence, 5) for
Anne overpowering me rather
than empowering me
6. Insecure and indecisive
in the decision I made to
leave
7. Overwhelmed and panicky –
the gravity of the decision
to leave felt monstrous
8. Isolated and lonely – us
“kids” were called “Anne’s
People” by Hope Center’s
congregation, and we didn’t
have many close friends
outside of the group. I had
only one person I could
confide in – I was afraid of
everyone else and lacked
social skills
9. Confused – “Why am I the
only one not happy in the
Stous House? Why am I the
only one leaving? Am I
making the right choice?
What if this is a mistake?
Should I trust what my head
is telling me or what my gut
is feeling?”
10. Denial – “It wasn’t that
bad. Anne meant well.”
11. Grief at leaving
everything and everyone that
had filled my life for the
last 5 years.
12. Afraid, nervous,
anxious, obsessed – “Will
Anne take me back if I
change my mind and want to
return to the Stous House?”
13. Empty
14. Miserable, pained, in
turmoil
15. Exhausted by the
external circumstances and
internal personal struggles
and chaos
16. Homesick for my
biological family and the
outside friends that I had
held at arm’s length for
those 5 years; homesick for
some of the mutual friends I
lost when I left the Stous
House; even homesick for the
Stous House at times
17. Precarious, fragile – I
was on the verge of a
nervous breakdown; any
little thing set off my
tears, anger and panic
18. Gullible, duped
19. Manipulated, used
20. Embarrassed and ashamed
of the mess I had gotten
myself into; humiliated
21. Disillusioned with the
Stous House – they didn’t
end up being what they
originally seemed; the Stous
House was different looking
from the inside out;
everyone on the outside had
the wrong view of what the
Stous House truly was and
thought I was exaggerating /
lying about what was really
going on
22. Disturbed by what went
on in the Stous House
23. Paranoid that the FBI
would question or come after
me
24. Regret over my decision
to leave the Stous House;
also over losing those five
years to her instead of what
they could have been
25. Betrayed by Anne, Sherri
and ‘the kids’
26. Suspicious that Anne
would retaliate
27. Terrified of failure on
the outside
28. Misunderstood and
misinterpreted by society
29. Marked, labeled – I felt
like the whole world knew /
could tell what I had just
been through
30. Contaminated – (a
continuation of “Marked”
above), that the world
labeled me ‘unclean’ and put
me in a convenient little
box so that they wouldn’t
‘catch’ what I ‘had’
31. Cunning (good), yet
deceptive and dishonest
(bad) - in planning and
arranging to leave
32. Hatred towards Anne and
Sherri
33. Avoidant of people,
places, triggers, stress and
conflict; a loner, a hermit
34. Sad, depressed
35. Numb
GOOD
FEELINGS (in order)
1. Bold,
brave, proud for getting up
the courage to stand up
against Anne, leave and make
a new life for myself
2. Relief that the whole
mess was over, closing that
chapter of my life
3. Joy, exhilaration, that I
was out
4. Free! Liberated
5. Determined to make things
work for myself outside the
Stous House
It gets easier, and things
do get better. While writing
this list, I mentally put
myself back into that time
of my life, but I realized
that I wasn’t in that place
anymore. Be encouraged.
There is hope. I want to
thrive! To life! By Lora
Burton April 27, 2004
^
Wonder why
I didn’t cry
As you tore your hooks
From my open-
Eyes, are the windows to the
soul.
You slashed and stole mine,
Sold it.
Wonder why I didn’t cry
Wonder why, wonder why.
Empty torture, tortured fate
Hovering my-
Innocence does not exist.
No claim to comprehend,
I go on when I dread pain,
live it.
Wonder why I didn’t cry
Wonder why, wonder why.
Wonder why I just can’t die
Into your hands I give my-
“Spirit, take me to a quiet
place; lay me down to rest.
Replace my innocence”
I cry.
Wonder why I didn’t die
Wonder why, wonder why.
Wonder why you’re still
alive,
Turning over a new-
Leave me. You can’t possibly
need me
or want me
How many girls have you
raped
left hated, with a violent
Question?
Wonder why we didn’t cry,
Wonder why we didn’t die,
Wonder why, wonder why.
By Jael Sprinkle
2006
^
by Kristen Skedgell
Picture this. You’re on a
cruise ship sailing through
the Caribbean. The weather
is balmy, bright afternoon
sunshine, soft breeze, not
too hot, not too cold. Just
right. You’re on the deck
sunning just as you’ve been
doing every day for fifteen
years. You wear a shocking
pink two-piece bathing suit
to offset a dark tan. Your
book, a mystery, lies open
face down on the floor next
to a dripping pina colada.
Your eyes are closed under
dark sunglasses.
Late in the day, clouds
start to roll in. The water
becomes choppy. The captain
hobbles by and greets you.
You do not notice his peg
leg and the black patch over
his right eye. He says a
storm is blowing in. It
would be best if you went
down below. You thank him,
as you have done every day
for fifteen years and gather
your things. He is such a
nice captain.
Only this
day is different. This time,
when you open your eyes, you
take off your glasses. You
look up. You notice a black
flag with the white skull
and cross bones flying
overhead. Has this flag
always been there? Where is
the American flag that was
there yesterday? Something
is wrong. This is not the
Love Boat. This is a
pirate’s ship.
You ask your
husband, a crewmember. Do
you see the flag? Do you see
what I see? He aspires to
become First Mate. He does
not want to see it. You tell
him you and he should leave.
He does not want to leave.
He becomes angry when you
tell him what you have seen.
He does not believe you. You
take off his dark glasses.
Tell him to look. He sees
the flag. He confronts the
Captain. The Captain hands
him a sword. Arm yourself,
my boy, says the Captain.
Protect the Queen’s one true
flagship.
Donut
Man
by Diana
Pletts
Fiona
was astonished. What was he
doing?
Bill’s
sedan paused in the flow of
vehicles, then lurched
across the double lane of
traffic, into Dunkin’
Donuts. They had just left
the Prudential office of
Bill’s sometime employ,
having written a policy to
cover Fiona’s clunker of a
wagon.
“Nice
of the Francos to give it to
you,” he’d grunted, happy at
getting a policy. Work was
infrequent, what with
following his Prophetess
wife, Shirley, leader of the
Path, around.
“Uh, is
it ok that we’re here?”
Fiona asked. She was uneasy.
But Bill was already out of
the car, huffing his way to
the greasy, scratched glass
doors. He held them open for
her, then pushed through,
pausing to ogle the wire
shelves packed with donuts,
before dropping his chunky,
sagging frame onto the
nearest pink, vinyl covered
counter stool.
Fiona
contemplated the packed
shelves before her: from
tilted wire baskets and
grease stained papers
dripping bear claws
beckoned, and chocolate
glazes glinted and leered,
dribbling bits of multi
colored sprinkles under
fluorescent lights. Puffed
jelly doughnuts vied for
space with oozing Bavarian
crčmes, while staid plain
dunkers reminded her of
jaunts to New York City, not
so long in the past.
Fiona
sat silent, bewildered! Here
was Shirley’s husband
downing coffee, well laced
with sugar and cream from a
small dripping pitcher. Tan
liquid slurped onto the
thick, pink edged saucer,
and he poured it back into
the cup, like a wino going
after the last nip of wine,
and lustily gulped it down.
When
the waitress appeared with
two cream filled donuts
cradled in white paper
napkins, Bill’s eyes widened
for a quick moment like a
lover catching sight of his
beloved. He sniffed,
savoring the scent of sweet
grease in the air, and
sighed. White powdered sugar
drifted down from the
doughnuts like angel dust,
settling on the flecked
countertop. Bill picked a
doughnut up, gently, in a
pudgy hand, almost caressing
it. Saliva glistened in the
corner of his creased mouth,
and he poked the soft, round
pastry in. Fiona stared.
“Don’t
you want a cup of coffee?”
Bill asked, wiping his mouth
roughly with a crumpled
paper napkin.
“No! I
mean, auggh,” Fiona
stuttered. Jaw taut with
panic, her mind reeled with
disbelief at the sight of
Bill Jones stuffing
contraband into his chops
and washing it down with
caffeine: it was the devil!
Imprinted on the front of
Fiona’s brain like a
commercial for Postum, milk,
juice, anything but coffee,
were her Path mentor’s
words, conveyed when Fiona
had relayed her hankering
for a cup of Joe: “Well, we
don’t drink coffee or eat
white sugar, ‘cause the Lord
told us not to,” Kay Franco
informed Fiona, with a
beatific smile. And
abandoning her stiff, hot,
black beverage for Shirley’s
divine illuminations seemed
a reasonable swap to Fiona.
Shirley’s husband packed the
last fragment of doughnut
into his mouth and tilted
the cup one last time. “We
don’t have to tell Shirley
about this,” he said, and he
swung off his stool.
"These works of art and
literature are the property
of the artists and writers,
and no reproduction is
permitted with out the
express written permission
ofthe individual author or
artists."
^ |
