I don’t know. When was the last time I walked through Central Park? Or, when was the last time I walked through The Museum of Natural History? Or better yet, when was the last time I went to The Hayden Planetarium? It seems like it’s been forever. I think I have a plan. This involves an escape and a childish need to skip class and beat the responsibilities of everyday life.
Then again, I was never much for school and then again, I was never much for planning trips on the days when I would skip. Perhaps my intentions and motivations were different. Or, maybe it’s safer to say that my bank account is different now and so are my means of transportation.
I think now would be different though. In fact, I think if I were to plan a day to skip town or play hooky and “Cut class,” so to speak, I can think of a few ideas that come to mind.
Author Archives: bennyk1972
About Bullies
Sure, I was bullied. The worst of it was more than the bullying itself. The worst part of bullying are the remnants of what was said or done. The aftermath was the killer for me. I had to live with the shame, the guilt and the regret that I was unable to protect myself. The worst are the conversations we have in our head after the event takes place. This is what makes matters worse because next, we relive the insults and keep them fresh like a picked scab that never heals.
And dig it, I know that no one wants to talk about this. I see this all the time. Nobody wants to hear about this, which is why bullying goes on. But “Ah, they’re just kids being kids,” right?
Wrong. This is only their training grounds because I have met more bullies in Corporate America than on the playground or in the locker room at school.
A Note
Dear Parents:
This note that I send you is something that comes from both, my experience as a son and as a dad. This comes from a person who has seen both sides of the good and bad. Not unlike anyone else, this note comes from a person who understands mistakes, misgivings, apprehensions, anger and frustration. I am no guru or professional but more so, I am humble and real.
Continue readingA Ramble, a Plan and a Thought
I remember a scene in a movie. The movie is from when I was a kid and the story itself is not important enough to mention. Plus, a little piece of me is shaking my head because of a silly movie, which I remember all too well.
In any case, people had to pass through the gates to meet the Southern Oracle. My memory of this is a little hazy but one of the gates was a mirror that reflected your true self. Most people faced this gate and ran away screaming from what they saw. Maybe this part of the movie was more real than I thought.
Mirrors do have a way of reflecting things that we’d rather not see.
Me, Being the Protector
I see myself in this dream. As a matter of fact, there are many dreams like this, which come in similar variations. It is cold but I am not affected. I can tell the dream takes place in wintertime. The sky is gray and the trees are empty of their leaves. I am in my hometown again. I am walking around the pond at Eisenhower Park. I am dressed in a gray sweat suit with white sneakers, which is odd to me because I have never worn nor owned a sweat suit that looks like this. The ducks and the geese are gone. The water is dark and the cement around the pond is somehow dim; as if the entire view of everything around me is slightly gray-washed or nearly black and white.
Continue readingJust Remember: Life Happens to Everyone
There was a night that I recall. It was nothing special, at least not for any reason other than it was a nighttime in my young life. I was about to find myself at the spot where I traded my money for a few bags of self-destruction. Or wait, no. Maybe it’s more accurate to call the bags a form of self-distortion. It was true what they say, “The first hit is always free.” This is how they keep you coming back.
Continue readingWrite On
I have come to the understanding that each life comes with an inherent truth. But what is truth? Or better yet, what is my truth? Or, should I ask, what is ours?
(Does anybody know?)
I have found that honesty can sting. Even at times when honesty is only pure, like the beauty of an old couple at a lake, looking across the surface to watch the ducks swim past before the sun goes down. The sky is on the verge of change and the color blue is about to switch to a pre-autumn sunset. Orange, I think. Yes, with shades of a purple hue to lace the clouds. And oh, the face of the lake is like a mirror to the sky. It’s perfect and true; yet, endearing enough to bring a tear to the eye.
It’s Wake-Up Time
It’s okay.
There’s something about these words.
And there’s something to it. To be, “Okay.”
What a concept, right?
Just to Write . . .
I have a box of memories. I have it somewhere, probably buried amongst other boxes, stored away someplace, but not forgotten. I have pictures and old letters. I have postcards that I sent home from when I was in sleepaway camp.
One of those postcards is as simple as ever. “Dear Mom, send food!” and that’s all.
There are greeting cards that I sent when my Mother first moved to Florida. I believe I sent weekly cards for a while. She kept all of them.
I know this because I found them when I packed Mom’s things before we moved her to assisted living. This is life though. Ups and downs, the good and the bad. And so is this box: it’s life.
Inside the Thought Machine: Page 25 (The Last One)
Did I ever tell you about the time my Father swam in the Senior Olympics?
No?
He competed in a few different races. I’m pretty sure he competed in the freestyle, backstroke, and breaststroke but not the butterfly. He said he loved to swim the butterfly stroke but his breathing wasn’t right for competition.
The Old Man slimmed down and practiced. He trained hard. But more, this was something The Old Man did to prevent from feeling old.
