A few reactions to my first cautious steps into a study and experience of Theosophy.

I went to a Theosophy class at Theosophy Hall in downtown Los Angeles last night with my most excellent roommate Pedro. I enjoyed the experience. I wasn’t sure what was going on during the presentation and ensuing discussion – were they seeking the truth? conveying the truth? – yet the experience was so intellectually stimulating that I left feeling quite aware of my surroundings.

One guy gave me some free printed matter, which I read today. I also did some background research on the oh-so-trustworthy Internet. (I trust you can hear the measured sarcasm on that last point.)

My impressions are not all roses, though.

Continue reading A few reactions to my first cautious steps into a study and experience of Theosophy.

A few thoughts on menstruation, boys behaving badly, ritual, and the Gulf oil spill.

You’re weak, ladies and gentleman. Weak, whiny, woman-girls and man-boys. And it’s because we as a culture have no meaningful rituals to separate childhood from adulthood. If we had stronger, more jarring initiation rites to mark the time between childhood and adulthood, we would all be less pathetic and whiny and heartless as adults.

And if we replaced our self-indulgence with a healthy fear of Mother Earth, the Gulf might not be your “oops” garbage dump.

The world needs to wake and make a big deal of a girl’s first menstruation. Her body is becoming a vessel capable of sustaining the species, and we should use it as a time to help the girl become aware that she must eventually let go of the trappings of childhood and accept her place in the world as a mature and responsible and strong human being.

Continue reading A few thoughts on menstruation, boys behaving badly, ritual, and the Gulf oil spill.

I wrote this poem today while walking.

Along the foothills
Down the boulevard
Threading a path along the valley
Straight ahead wide open territory
To my right mountains loom
If I close my right eye
I can pretend I am back home
Walking along some flat old highway
In the flat open plain of Minnesota
I walk on shifting sand
I stop and dig
Won’t stop until I hit bedrock
Then drill a hole until the bit snaps
And plant the first piling
To my impregnable fortress
Nothing will topple it
No one gets across the drawbridge
Without knowing my dance macabre
Choreographed by the hands of puppet gods
Me versus pantheons
A lifelong tangle of war
Until by strings I rearrange the gods my way
And sit