After your promise, how dare you to ask me to let your hearts be stained with the blood of those who are innocent of the deed that has been done to us by others?
Now, nearly two decades later, I was in the same place with Jonathan’s daughter, who had just turned twenty, and who was with me not on a journey but a pilgrimage.
YOU KNOW you are inside the Bohemian Grove when you come down a trail in the woods and hear piano music from amid a group of tents and then round a bend to see a man with a beer in one hand and his penis in the other, urinating into the bushes.
“My name is Karoline Conradi Øksnevad,” she said, the words devoid of much inflection. But then, with greater emphasis: “You don’t know me. I am both no one and everyone.”