There is a magnanimous power in allowing someone to become. At some point in your life, you will understand this in its totality. If you’re not there yet, that’s ok. For now, just take it into consideration. Allowing someone to become can be the most profoundly radical act of love you ever show them.

It’s also a fantastic gift to give yourself. One that keeps on giving.

I think about my mom nearly every day. My mother and Dharma were the first two people I went to for advice. In the last 10 years, since leaving Seattle, they were the two people who insisted on picking me up and dropping me off at the airport, even when their work schedules were complete chaos. I still talk to them both all the time, and sometimes they even answer. But, you know, it’s different than it was before.

I also thought a lot about being from a matrilineal line of witches and how my mom, Nana, and Aunt Karen formed this Holy Trinity of female empowerment for me as a child. My Nana, my mom’s mom and matriarch of the Davis clan, told my mother she knew I was gay when I was five. She passed nearly 20 years ago. As an adult, I had only seen her a handful of times over the years, but was nonetheless deeply saddened by her passing; it quietly claimed the last vestiges of my childhood innocence.

Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays with the Davis clan are my happiest memories of my early childhood. To be fair, they are some of my only memories of my early childhood due to trauma. Most notably, trauma inflicted by the rotten scoundrel, who donated the genetic material that helped my mother form me. I think we can all agree that my sister and I are the only meaningful things that scumbag ever produced.

My Aunt Karen, who I absolutely worshiped as a child, lamentably, went MAGA sometime ago and, since deciding to vote against my civil liberties was kinda a deal breaker, my mother, sister and I all cut ties with her. She passed a few months ago as well, leaving my sister and I to sort out uncomfortable feelings about who she was, and who she’d become. This is one of those rare instances where giving someone the grace to become didn’t pay off. C’est la vie.

Now that the once Holy Trinity has come to pass, it’s just me and my sister, trying to undo a entire lifetime of both lived and generational trauma. As witchy, strong, fiercely independent, and wickedly intelligent as the Davis women were, they sure ended up in some really fucked up toxic relationships with men. And, FYI, being gay didn’t opt me out of bad partner making decisions.

Here I am, orphaned in my 50s, trying to bring the generational trauma to an end, yet equally desirous of honoring the witches that came before me. As the last of my bloodline, my ancestral responsibilities as trauma-ender weight heavily on me at times. Now that I am embracing crone-hood as my most authentic self, I realize how awesome I am, what a force of nature I am to be reckoned with, and how proud of me my mother and her mother always were — and still are.

I can’t profess to understand the plight of motherhood. I can only relate in theoretical terms. I marvel at the statistically improbable odds of me being born at all, let alone into this timespace. It’s pretty wild, all of it. The magical and the mundane, the sacred and and the profane. And I’m here to celebrate all of it.

So, without further ado, I’ll take you back to the start of me. It’s a story as impactful as it is inconsequential. Or maybe impactful because it’s inconsequential. That’s for you to decide.

As a matrilineal witch, my first experiences with the Woo occurred when I was between 5 – 8 years old in my grandparent’s home. When we spent holidays there, my sister and I always stayed in the room at the end of the hall, on the left. The door of the bedroom sometimes slowly opened or closed as we played. Occasionally, the lights would turn on and off. Being a rational brained analytical Virgo child, I was suspicious of my jokster uncles and cousins. Everyone on my mother’s side has a sharp intellect and wicked dark sense of humor. Holidays at Nana’s could be wild, mostly harmless trouble. Pranks were played, fun was had. By most. Occasionally someone would take things too far, but it was all in good spirit.

Eventually, I was able to rule out my prankster family and started wondering about pragmatic things like inclines, wind, and faulty wiring. While I could rationalize most of those things, the water in the bathroom randomly turning on full blast erased any doubt that something supernatural was responsible. That old-timey tap had to be twisted and pulled rather hard for the shower to come on. Without human intervention, it should have been an impossible feat.

Water indicators, although infrequent, have stuck with me until present day. Most of the stories I’m going to tell here involve water in some manner, which I never really pieced together until just now. You truly do learn something new every day.

Although inexplicable, these events at Nana’s didn’t scare us. We just kind of accepted them, as children often do. I don’t recall ever talking about it until the event that I’m about to describe transpired.

It was a day or two after Christmas. Or maybe Thanksgiving. The two holidays kind of blend together in mind, both centering around family and food. We were at that point where everyone had gotten a bit too much of both. Most of my uncles and cousins had gone to do adult things. Knowing what I do now, they were probably smoking weed. Or, at least, I love to think so.

I had a horrible headache, maybe even my first migraine. I was pretty sure I was dying.

My sister and cousin Rene were in our room playing, so my mother took me to my grandmother’s room to rest. She drew the blinds and turned up the AC. After sitting with me for a while, petting my head and comforting me in that way only a mother can, she left me in the dark with a cool, damp rag on my forehead, covering my eyes. She kissed me and told me to try and rest, promising I’d feel better soon. I wanted to believe her, but the pain was relentless.

My grandparents had these two great big old dogs, Goldie, who was predictably a Golden Retriever, and Lil Bit, who was some kind of beautiful mutt, approximately the size and coloring of a Doberman. Goldie rarely left my Papa’s side, but Lil Bit really enjoyed playing with the younger kids. She was especially attached to me, my mother, and sister. She was our constant companion, which was a special treat for us since our dog, Elsa, had run away and we weren’t allowed to get another.

I was there, stretched out in my Nana’s bed in the cool dark with the damp rag over my eyes, trying to ignore the corkscrew boring into the center of my skull. I was trying not to move much because tossing and turning ignited waves of crippling nausea. Migraine sufferers know how time bends and distorts, dragging minutes into hours during an attack. Falling asleep can be nearly impossible but, occasionally, endorphins bless small mercies, granting waves of shallow water dozing.

It’s hard to say how long I’d been lying there, alone in the dark, when suddenly I was gripped by the distinct feeling of someone sitting down on the foot of the bed. Thinking maybe I’d dozed into deeper waters and not heard my mother come in to check on me, I whispered, “Mom?” To no reply.

Fair enough, I hadn’t actually heard the door open. Probably, she’d not pulled it firmly shut behind her and Lil Bit had come in to comfort me. Eyes still covered by the rag, I called out for the dog softly, reaching my hand toward the foot of the bed, expecting to be greeted with a cold nose or gentle lick. But there was nothing. That was odd. Lil Bit was always quick to give nuzzles and kisses. Especially if she sensed we were sad or unwell. She was a intuitively sensitive soul.

The feeling of the foot of the bed depressing under the weight of someone - or thing - had been unmistakable. I lifted my head from the pillow, reaching down a bit further, sweeping my hand from side to side. I definitely should have felt her, or something, but maybe I was disoriented, reaching in the wrong direction?

Starting to feel a little uneasy, I slowly lifted the rag, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the near impenetrable darkness. I remember wondering how it was that dark anyway. I mean, the shades were drawn, but it was a white-hot Miami mid-afternoon. My vision was a little blurry in that migraine weary way, but it was immediately evident there was nothing at the foot of the bed.

Increasingly confused, I carefully propped myself up on my elbows, staring dumbly at the visible depression. The foot of the bed was marked by the weight of. Something. My breath caught in my chest as my heart hammered a little heavier. I pushed myself completely upright as slowly and quietly as possible, unable to reconcile what I was seeing. Or, wasn’t seeing. The depression wasn’t quite Lil Bit sized, rather it was the size of either a petite woman or robust toddler.

Without taking my eyes off the depression, I reached for the bedside lamp, delicately fumbling at the switch. Just as I flipped the light on, the weight released and the visible depression disappeared, as if whatever had been seated there had simply vanished. I cautiously crawled to the edge of the bed and peered over. There was nothing there. I bravely climbed from bed, tiptoed to the bathroom at the far end of the room, and switched on the light. Maybe Lil Bit had jumped down when I stirred and the mattress had stubbornly refused to promptly regain its shape? A delayed reaction? I dunno. Kid logic.

But a search of the room found nothing in the bathroom or bedroom; nothing under the bed or behind the curtains. The bedroom door? Firmly shut. I wasn’t necessarily afraid. I was more startled than anything. I went out to the dining room and found my mom, Aunt Karen, and Nana sitting around the table chatting. They immediately jumped in concern, asking if I was OK and making a big fuss. I stood there dumbly, unsure what to say.

“Honey is your head still hurting?” I blinked. In fact, it wasn’t. I felt completely restored. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said my Aunt Karen. The three women exchanged glances. “Honey did something happen? You can tell us, it’s OK, ” reassured Nana. If Nana said something was OK, then it was. So I rather calmly told them everything. More glances were exchanged before Nana nodded in solemn confirmation. “See there, I told you,” she said to my aunt and mother, “It happens to all of the women in the family.”

My mom asked if I’d experienced anything else in the house that seemed strange. I shrugged and recounted stories of the opening and closing door, the flickering lights. I don’t know why I hesitated a beat before confessing the bit about the water in the main bathroom. That caused my aunt to raise a brow. Oh? That one was new, she commented. No, my mother confided that it had happened to her as well.

Nana and Aunt Karen had both experienced the lights and doors, but not the water. My aunt seemed skeptical, but Nana didn’t question any of it. “She’s just trying to let you know she’s there. If you ignore one thing, she’ll start with another,” she nodded as she spoke.

Nana said my uncles and Papa thought she was crazy, but she was certain there was a guardian angel in the house. She suggested that she’d probably gone into the bedroom to look after me. She was a caretaker, Nana explained. She’d probably taken my headache away. My aunt and mother seemed less convinced of that, but Nana continued with conviction, “She looks out for me. I tell you, she saved my life a couple of months ago.”

My grandfather was an airplane mechanic and sometimes worked the graveyard shift, leaving Nana alone in the house at night. On such nights, the dogs never left her side. Both of them slept in the room with her, Lil Bit at the foot of the bed, Goldie in front of the door. One night, Nana said she was in a dead sleep when she suddenly awoke with the inexplicable feeling that something was – off.

The dogs were sleeping silently at their usual stations; nothing in the material world appeared out of place. Certainly the dogs would have alerted to any real world danger. She tried to dismiss the queer feeling and drift back to sleep. Then, she said, as clear as day, she heard someone whispering her name. “Jewel, Jewel, wake up. You’ve got to wake up, Jewel.”

She suddenly felt compelled to go to the kitchen and, just as she flipped on the light, a dish towel hanging above the stove fell onto the burner below; a burner glowing bright, angry red. The second the dish towel hit, it ignited, bursting into flames. Nana quickly extinguished the fire and, fortunately, emerged nothing more than a little shaken.

We all looked at one another, knowing that what Nana said next was the absolute truth, “If I wouldn’t have gone into the kitchen at that exact moment, the entire house would have gone up in flames and killed me and the dogs.”

While that might sound a touch dramatic, it really wasn’t. Homes built in the 50s were notoriously flammable. Nothing back then was fire retardant. It was as if things were constructed in mockery, deliberately tempting the Fire Fates. Nana’s kitchen was a fantastic fire hazard: paper bags and towels strewn about, wooden cabinets that were probably double plus lacquered with the most flammable substance known to humankind. Not to mention, everything about the design of the house would have prohibited rapid evacuation.

The house was shaped like a giant L, the kitchen, dining, and living rooms were perpendicular to the hallway with the three bedrooms and two baths. The L was joined by a spacious sitting room with high ceilings. That’s where the main entrance was. The only other exit was a door to the backyard in the living room.

The sitting room was cluttered with tinder: a piano, tomes of books, mountains of magazines, doilies, trinkets, Christmas cards, and Chachkies galore. It may as well have been filled with dry wood stacked in a funeral pyre.

In all likelihood, had a fire broken out in the kitchen, it would have beat a quick path to the sitting room, gobbling up oxygen and everything in its path like a hungry beast of prey. The probability of my Nana being trapped in the hallway, barricaded behind a towering wall of flame was as likely as it was grim.

You’d think, maybe she would have been able to get out through a bedroom window. Except the windows didn’t open horizontally or vertically. Meant to deter break ins, the windows were comprised of thin horizontal slats, about 4 or 5 inches wide and 4 or 5 inches apart. You could roll them open for ventilation, but even at full capacity, you couldn’t fit more than an arm between the gaps in the slats. There was no getting into, or out of, windows like that.

I don’t know the history of that house, or anything about the previous tenants. I don’t think my Nana did either. If anyone had died there, leaving restless spirits in their wake, I’ll never know. For Nana, the inhabiting spirit was a guardian angel. That was all she needed, or perhaps wanted, to know.

I don’t quite believe in angels as that would necessitate a basic belief in a biblical God; a belief that is quite absent from me. What I do know is there are a million types of psychic spidey senses and tells: precognitive dreams, clairvoyance, clairaudience, claircognizance, clairsentience. Most of my witching occurs in the dreamtime, where I hear, see, and infallibly know things. Like many witches, I have a combination of the clairs.

Mostly, when the ethereals show up, they love to switch appliances on and off, disappear and reappear objects in places they simply ought not be. I don’t know what they’re trying to accomplish with such shenanigans, other than getting my attention. To what end, I’m seldom certain. Sometimes, they tell me their stories. Other times, they simply persist in annoying me. Maybe sometimes they’re stronger than others. Or I’m more receptive. Or our frequencies just naturally align better. Your guess is as good as mine.

I have no idea why water has often been the definitive doubt eraser. I’m an earth sign and very attracted to water; oceans and rivers are calming sources for me. Not lakes though. Fuck lakes. Lakes are creepily unnatural. There’s nothing more disconcerting than a contained body of water at rest. I have a serious vendetta against lakes. How very dare they?!

Wait, I suppose the Great Lakes bare an exception. Or the Nordsee in Hamburg. That one’s pretty majestic.

What was I talking about? Oh yes – water! Suffice to say that both humans and the earth are comprised of mostly water. And it’s an excellent conduit. Maybe it’s that simple.

I have a handful of stories I feel are pretty compelling. I suppose in keeping true to the theme of witches in Porto, it makes sense to include a couple of experiences I’ve had here as well. They aren’t the most confounding, but fit the assignment, so I’ll include them in a single post.

The two most intensely mystifying were in Seattle and Germany. Those are the stories of Graceland and The Patriarch, respectively. Oh, and then there’s also the “demon” I kinda accidentally released into Raj and Rik’s Seattle home. Maybe I’ll work up the courage to talk about that.

Enjoy the upcoming tales from the darkside, my lovely witches. Oh, final note: I’m still thinking of making content, where I read more obscure passages from classic books and encourage the audience to guess which (witch : ) ) they’re from. If anyone has thoughts about that feel free to comment. Maybe I’ll tease a sample of that and see how it flies.

Look for two more ghost posts this week, in and around the equinox and full moon.

Fare thee well, fam. And remember, you don’t have to have a body to be somebody.

Ooof ><

OK, Baiiii!

There is magic everywhere. Especially here in Porto.

Here’s the thing, although Porto is more witchy than the average haunt, it’s also rather small. I’ve already glowed up many of the gothy, queer, magical, businesses in the city. Honestly, I’d hoped to spend the summer interviewing the proprietors of said places, then branching out to investigate some natural haunts, especially within the interior. One of my collaborators recently told me there’s a small village around here that worshiped Baphomet. If that’s not exploration worthy I don’t know what is!

Unfortunately, my summer explorations were reliant upon sidekicks, one with a camera and the other with a vehicle. Neither of those panned out, and I got a bit stuck in one of those pesky employment seeking loops that stole more of precious time than desired.

That isn’t worth talking about. But you know what is? This update! Between writing and publishing this, I found another partner in crime willing to help me with the aforementioned interviews, so maybe we’ll be able to get a couple of those up by Halloween. <fingerbonescrossed!>

Sidenote on some of the other creative irons I’ve got in the fire: the Twin Peaks podcast I’ve teased will probably still be happening. We have the first episode in the can, but my co-hostess with the mostess had to put it on brief hiatus. Stay posted! If it does happen, I promise it will be worth the wait.

The short film I was working on ran its course. For me, anyway. Creative differences! The producer insisted on using AI, and we all know how I feel about that. This has encouraged me to part ways. If you’re following After São João on IG, feel free to continue to support whatever it becomes. I was only head writer for the first episode, which may or may not be nearing an official release.

From the ashes, so rises the phoenix. I hope to embark on another film project this November. It’s still in the conceptual phase, but will assuredly be brought to you with the integrity a true creative collab deserves. I’m meeting with the new group this week and will be posting updates as they emerge.

*Update here and now! I met with the new group and we are all very excited to explore the concept of Haunted Portugal. Turns out two of my collaborators, both Portuguese, already have quite a bit of knowledge on, and interest in, the subject. I am going to link them up here real quick. Joao is a Film Director, VFX artist, and Prop Master, and Joana does physical theater and develops cultural and artistic projects within the community. They’re both super cool and creative individuals, who I am very pleased to be working with. Check them out!

Now, without further ado, I submit for you the following compensatory entries. I am going to switch format here a bit. Still keeping it witchy but, in lieu of interviews with local witches, I’m going to rapid post several entries about ghosts of my past over the next couple of weeks.

Like many witches, I’ve experienced supernatural stuff since I was a kid. Some have been positively eerie, others simply strange synchronicities or Things That Make You Go Hmm. Only Gen X get that reference, but I’ll allow it. Gen X, since I have your attention, the next section is for you. Also, take your multivitamin.

It might not feel as timely as I’d originally hoped, but I would be remiss not to mention the recent back to back losses of Dolly Parton and Tim Curry. I remember sneaking out through my bedroom window as a very young punk to go see the midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I’d be hard pressed to write anything more eloquent than you’ve already read on social media about what Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter meant to punk, queer, witchy, theater nerds and misfits. The fact that kids are still climbing out of bedroom windows – air tags be damned! – to participate in the age old ritual of throwing hot dogs at the screen as they cosplay to the Time Warp is another one of those damned things that restores my faith in humanity. So, Mr. Curry, you are beloved by many and I am delighted that you are forever immortalized as The Queen of Sexy Gender Bending Drag. Rest well, beautiful soul.

And then there’s Dolly Parton. What can even be said about a woman who chose philanthropy over becoming a billionaire? Who prioritized literacy, equality, and love over hate and bigotry? Who crossed party lines to bring people together? Someone so authentic, and selfless? What can you say about someone who not only talked the talk, but walked the walk, and lived the life?

And in THIS administration?

All you can say is thank you. We are endlessly grateful for everything you did, Dolly. We saw you, and We Will Always Love You.

I don’t think I realized exactly how civic minded Dolly was until more recent years. I suppose, in part, that’s because that’s what real altruism looks like: quiet, unassuming. It’s not something that needs to be live-streamed or done for accolades. The loss of that kind of purity is especially disheartening in these nebulous times of fear mongering, rapacious greed, and irrational hate.

The second reason I was blithely unaware of Dolly’s awesome generosity, perhaps more germane to this story, is that she reminded me so much of my recently and dearly departed friend, Dharma. I’ve been missing the fuck out of her lately, and Dolly’s passing only accentuates that deep, lonely, Dharma-sized ache in my heart.

If you were fortunate enough to have known Dharmakaya, then you likely know she had a true love and admiration for women like Dolly. She was also a big fan of Pamela Anderson and Anna Nicole Smith. The pattern? Sure, they’re all buxom blonde bombshells, but they’re all also women who were, at times, criminally underestimated and grossly exploited.

Happily, Dolly subverted exploitation, came into her own, and gave us the chance to know and love her for her extraordinary talent and unassailable personage. Still, in the early 90s, when I shared a studio apartment with Dharma on Thomas and Boylston, I don’t think either of us knew as much about Dolly. We loved The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, 9 to 5, and some of her real bops. I mean, even the Sisters of Mercy covered Jolene.

There was one other thing. We were haunted by the song Islands in the Stream. Curious, I know. But as far as hauntings go, I can’t complain.

I have witnessed some legit inexplicable paranormal or supernatural activity in my lifetime. To be fair, this haunting was more of an uncanny occurrence that can almost assuredly be explained by some kind of science. It’s pretty odd nonetheless.

Dharma bought this antique phone at Goodwill or Value Village. If you were a goth in the 90s in Seattle, you were assuredly involved in the goth furniture thrift-off. Nearly every goth I knew had the same wrought iron candle holders and picture frames at one time or another. There were also several of these ornate, hexagonal coffee tables that looked like they came straight from a Vincent Price movie in heavy rotation, and Dharma wasn’t the only person I knew who had a bronze hanging oil lamp with Venus de Milo in the center. That’s a deep IYKYK cut.

This very Victorian looking phone was a crème color, adorned with - I don’t quite recall. It might have been a few delicate lilies or lilacs. I might be misremembering that part. What I do recall was the old-timey, elongated, U-shaped receiver, the mouth and earpiece of which were too far apart. It wasn’t a rotary, but had push buttons situated in a circle. A modern take on a time bygone classic. Listen, if you don’t understand the type of antiquated landline I’m describing here, don’t worry. Suffice to say, it didn’t look like anything that would actually function. Imagine our joy that it did!

The sound was deplorable, but that didn’t stop us from using it. It was aesthetically pleasing, but highly impractical. You know, like most of the thrift shit you had in your twenties. Anyway, the witchy mystery that probably wasn’t super mysterious was that there was often a cross connection on the line. It wasn’t a super common occurrence, but land lines would do things like that on occasion. You’d pick up snippets of another person’s conversation. Maybe a baby monitor. Or, in this case, presumably a radio station. At least, that’s the best explanation we could come up with.

It wasn’t every call, but frequently, very clearly, you could hear a song playing in the background. And that song was invariably Islands in the Stream. Oftentimes, it was faint and unobtrusive. Others, it would be so crisp and bold that Dharma would stop talking and sing along with it off key, replete with hair flips and finger guns. If you were fortunate enough to have known Dharma, you know exactly what I mean.

OK, I know what you’re thinking. It was probably a popular song at the time. Not really. Islands was at least 10 years old by this time. Moreover, it’s not hyperbole to say that’s the only song that ever played. It was Islands or nothing. I mean, maybe there was an All Islands All the Time station in range. That seems likely, right?

It was so notoriously recognizable that we’d sometimes call people and leave messages without uttering a single word. The recipient would hear the ghostly strains of Islands in the background and call back, “You rang?”

I dunno, cross connections, mixed frequencies, radio-like-airwaves. I get that part, more or less. But only that song? Thinking back, this phone did really look something that might’ve been in Dollywood. Maybe the person who designed it went to Dollywood and was inspired. Who can say?

Eventually, we ended up buying a newer phone. I’m not entirely positive, but we probably ended up surrendering the ghost phone back to the thrift. Hey, if you were part of the goth furniture trade maybe you had your turn with it. ? Did it play Dolly for you too?

It’s a silly story, sure. One that seems more explainable than not, although still curious. Mostly, it’s a fond memory of my best friend, who’s no longer here to collaborate. Or commiserate. Or give me the sage advice only she could give. Advice that, at this particular time, I could really use.

Dharma had some very Dolly-esque qualities the world could use more of nowadaze: a kind of child like wonderment that somehow lacked naivety, and a true generosity of both spirit and self. When people like Dharma and Dolly depart this physical world, they leave conspicuous slashes in the fabric of life; ones that can seem impossible to mend. I think of Dolly’s Coat of Many Colors; the patchwork darned by necessity, sewn as much by love as thread.

Maybe there’s a bit of solace here for when we’re feeling world-weary and threadbare. Much like the goth furniture we re-purposed, I believe we can restitch the cosmic fabric torn from us.

In Kintsugi, the traditional Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, the cracks don’t ruin the piece, they give it character. Admittedly, it’s not the thing it once was, but it becomes something. More. Things are always changing. Usually, they change so slowly it deifies perception. Maybe if we embraced changes in all of their glorious subtlety we could better appreciate things in real time, rather than waxing nostalgic about them after they’ve passed.

Maybe things are more beautiful when broken. Because they are broken. Maybe the holes in the fabric of our lives encourage us to weave a stronger, richer tapestry. Like a Coat of Many Colors, Love is a Many Splintered Thing. See how I brought it back around to Sisters of Mercy there?

It’s all connected; the hole is part of the whole. That means those of us still here in physical form have got some weaving to do. So let’s get to it! In a world full of D*nalds, for fucksake, let’s be Dollys.

Because, you know, we rely on each other.

Uh huh.

Stay tuned, and stay witchy, fam. I have three ghost stories locked and loaded, ready for rapid release over the next week or so. I also have a keen idea about reading obscure passages from the classics to you, in the interest of promoting literacy and literature. More on that over the next couple of posts.

UPCOMING GHOST STORIES:

1. Nana’s Guardian Angel (Florida)

2. The Rockin’ Demon of Graceland (Seattle)

3. The Patriarch of the Westwall (Germany)

Could be most people find it the same way I did, via a MeetUp event, as they seem to have a rather large presence there. What’s more, they actually have a great webpage with an events calendar. I don’t think I’ve mentioned it yet, but clubs and companies in Porto are absolutely allergic to webpages. Instead, they direct you to their Facebook, IG, or Whatsapp. For me, that’s a bummer. I wanna see an events page for the week or month, rather than having to check your stories daily to find out what’s up. Also, call me old fashioned, but I like to learn a little about a business, who they are, what they stand for. While a picture is worth a thousand words, and your IG stories might be cute, can ya’ll just tell a girl what time the event starts and if you have vegetarian food?

But I digress. Look Sharp has an easy to navigate webpage; you can easily toggle between events and the menu. Let’s start there. They have pretty amazing food with tons of vegetarian and vegan options. I’m particularly fond of their vegan desserts.

On one occasion, I took my friends there, one German, the other Indian. While our food was outstanding, my German friend’s left a little to be desired. It was meant to be an Indian dish, but I think it might have been an overly ambitious attempt by a new chef who didn’t exactly understand Indian Flavors. Our Indian friend took one bite of it and said she didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t taste like any Indian food she’d ever eaten. At any rate, it’s no longer on the menu.

But, wait, Witch, this doesn’t exactly sound like a glow up. Simmer down now, I’m getting there. When the very lovely server asked how everything was (in Porto they don’t always ask), my German friend, true to her nature, honestly replied that it wasn’t very tasty. The server apologized sincerely, took it back, and didn’t charge us for it. She even brought a yummy complimentary vegan dessert to compensate. That kind of service is exactly what they bring to the table every time.

As for their events, I honestly did attend Queer Speed Friending there last Pride and had a lot of fun. While I didn’t exchange info with anyone, I still randomly run into some of the folks I met there around town. People always have questions when I tell them about this event and, briefly: They put us in random groups of four - six people. There are something like six rounds and, each round, there’s a silly or quirky getting to know you question. Every table elects the person with the best answer as their table winner. Then, the table winners share their answer with the group at large and get a free shot.

After a few rounds everyone knew I was from Seattle, really into the woo-woo, and might be forced to drink them all under the table. Twist my arm.

I also attended a queer trivia night there, which was as straight-not-straight forward as it sounds. And surprisingly challenging!

I’ve been there for food on a couple of different open mic nights and seen some rather talented local musicians. While this might be an experience unique to me, I swear any and every where I’ve been in the world, street and open mic musicians start playing Seattle grunge the second I walk in or by. I don’t know what it is about me that screams Nirvana, but well, whatever, nevermind.

I know that Look Sharp has a pretty popular board game night, although they do tend to pair it with jazz, which isn’t exactly my jam, so I’ve yet to try that event. I just looked at their page and noticed this month, every Saturday, they have an adults only Booze and Brains Brunch with bottomless mimosas and adult trivia. ?. I feel compelled to get to the bottom of that!

A few more mention worthy events: they host an event called Meaningful Meals, where you pay 22.50 Euro for a cocktail and three course meal with a table of strangers. I appreciate the community building efforts and plan to attend one soon. They also have a book club, comedy nights, sportsball type events, etc. - a little something for everyone. Checkout the full events page here.

Lastly, if you need a place to work, they also have a cowork option. This is a new trend here in Europe, not sure if it’s caught on in the US yet. You can rent a desk by the hour, day, week, or month. They have high speed internet, printers, and plenty of tasty coffee, pastries, and healthy snacks to keep you fueled throughout your work day.

Honestly, when I am making money solely from writing and no longer have to rely on teaching as a side gig, I’ll probably start using places like this. Change of scenery, putting on pants to leave the house. You know, character building stuff.

Altogether, I give Look Sharp Cafe a B+ on the scale that I just made up this very moment. But seriously, it a definite recommend. It’s not ultra witchy or queer year round, but it’s a comfortable spot. Plus the service, food, and event nights definitely bring people together. Aside from the local musicians, it’s not necessarily the most uniquely Portuguese place, but it’s a place where new in towners and weary travelers can share a pleasant evening together.

And, hey, you might make a queer or witchy friend while you’re there anyway. Who says ya can’t? The possibilities are endless and there’s magic everywhere.

Stay witchy, fam.

That’s the global stuff. As for yours truly, in addition to everything above, I have also been working on an eight episode, vertical film series called After São João. We’ve just completed our first episode and hope to drop it soon. I’m now the head writer, so expect to be spending lots of quality time collaborating in writing rooms throughout the summer.

In other fantastically exciting personal news, creative projects abound! I am finally able to announce my new podcast, Log Ladies, co-hosted by Stephanie Stone Robb and produced by Dave “The Arm” Stone Robb (IG link to pod forthcoming!). You probably caught two key points there: 1. Yes, this is a damn fine Twin Peaks podcast 2. It’s produced!!! This is an unimaginable upgrade from my Maidens and Magick YouTube channel. Although, I stand by that pandemic passion project and encourage you to check it out.

Although I am bursting at the seams to write more about both projects, I will do so in separate entries in the very near future. Because today, witches, I am here to talk to you about Porto PRIDE.

I haven’t gotten the numbers yet, but feel fairly certain that we may have matched, or even exceeded, the 40,000 plus crowd gathered for Massive Attack at the Primavera Music Fest a couple weeks ago. Of course, in typical Portuguese fashion, other marginalized and activist groups showed up in allyship. I refer you to my When Queers Put Down Flags and Pick Up Bricks. And Carnations? article, wherein I describe Porto’s tendency to combine forces.

Additionally, as mentioned in my Cinema Batalha and Trindade piece, the kids really are alright! While there was a diverse range of age and gender expressions at the Pride March, what really struck me were the number of teens and young adults, many accompanied by parents sporting LGBTQIA+, Support Trans Kids, regalia. The allyship was mighty and nothing delights me more than seeing Gen Z and Alpha owning the space they occupy.

It’s especially touching to witness this parental support in a time when it feels like civil rights for queer and trans people are being aggressively dismantled by oligarchs and Nazis. Trans people, even here, are poised with go-bags, prepared to spend the remainder of their days running to save their lives; fugitives without sanctuary.

I cannot imagine this type of insecurity and don’t want anyone else to have to.

If you’re reading this from the US and thinking well, good for ya’ll, but not in this administration, while gesticulating wildly. I know. I do. I see you. I hear you. Listen, while it may not assuage your immediate fears or do much to alleviate the pain, fear, and outrage you’re likely experiencing, I just want you to know this:

There are good people across the globe who will never stop fighting for your rights. I hope against hope that people showing up at demonstrations here, and around the world, to support trans rights creates a ripple effect that serves to raise the collective consciousness. However idealistic that may seem.

I’ll admit, I’m still riding the fumes of my Pride High.

After all, it’s easier for us to feel optimistic during Pride month, when we’re bouncing between queer events, donning our rainbow flags like armour. Yet, we all know that the freedom to live loudly and proudly is a luxury not everyone can afford. That’s an absolutely absurd sentence to write, as what I’m talking about are fundamental human rights. Those rights, our rights, should be as indelible as those of the pedophiles and racists running the show.

And there I go with my smash the patriarchy rhetoric again. The kind that alienates even some of the more liberal people I know. If this kind of speech makes you unconformable, check your privilege. Still in the spirit of PRIDE MONTH and letting love in to win, I’ll wrap this up in a sparkly bow.

Women and queers, gather your enbies and witches. Hold your tribe dear, don’t live in fear. Love and look out for one another while we wait for these feeble minded, rapacious rapists to trigger their own demise. My theory is that this closed, human-labour based economy, like gen-AI, will eat itself. So, don’t give up hope. That great ouroboros moment of reckoning might be closer than it feels.

When this empire crumbles, or implodes, we’ll emerge on the other side, stronger, gayer, and PROUDER than ever before. We’ll rebuild; that’s what we do. That’s who we are. We’ll make it grander, more fabulous than before. We must! These bootlickers have all the fashion sense of wet pudding. Honestly, with that kind of money they could feed and house the world’s population and still turn a fierce look. Instead we get Khaki pants and Maga hats?!

Witches, this must come to an end.

I hope that everyone found themselves swathed in allyship and bathed in glitter this pride. If that wasn’t you, please don’t give up. Our time is coming.

I’m pretty devastated that I didn’t get a ticket but, since Margaret Atwood was in Porto this Pride weekend, I’ll end with: Don’t let them grind you down.

You’re absolutely too wonderful for that. Big love to you all and, as always, stay witchy.

There’s still a proper theme here: Bar Bar has an Edward Gorey homage upstairs and a Twin Peaks style bar downstairs. Bar Bar just opened a couple of months ago. While the Edward Gorey tribute definitely seems like a work in progress, the Twin Peaks inspired bar downstairs is so aesthetically pleasing you’re willing to forgive Bar Bar any other shortcomings. Including their admittedly awkward name.

Apart from the name, there’s not much to forgive. Sure, it seems like there are a few missed opportunities, such as the absence of Twin Peaks inspired cocktails. Their cocktails are fantastic, don’t get it twisted, but why not have a Laura Palmer, a Black Lodge, or a Bob on the menu? Perhaps I’m spoiled after having lived in Seattle for so long, where pilgrimages to Snoqualmie Falls, nights at the Great Northern (Salish Lodge & Spa), and pie at the RR (Tweeds) were frequent and always spent in good company. I’ve even been to Ronette’s bridge, the TP sheriff’s station, and the hotel where Teresa Banks was murdered. So maybe my snob is showing.

Another missed opportunity is the lack of Angelo Badalamenti and other TP themed music. This is slightly harder to forgive as there’s a wealth of incredible music to choose from. From FWWM to The Return, the music is consistently outstanding. I could create playlists for days! Lamentably, I didn’t hear much that spoke to the TP universe. Eventually they did play some Chrystabell adjacent dream pop. Not exactly my jam, but I wasn’t mad at it.

They might be on a learning curve while finding their footing, but a couple of things I already adore about Bar Bar are the staff, who are incredibly kind and accommodating, and the fact that they host events with local artists. For example, the food popup with SouthernGal in Portugal I attended. If you ever have the opportunity to attend one of her popups, treat yourself! You won’t regret it.

SouthernGal served a spread that made me nostalgic for Florida. That’s never happened. Until last week, when good fortune was mine. SouthernGal served up Bourbon BBQ chicken wings with ranch sauce, twice baked potato skins, honey biscuits, minted melon, and limoncello pound cake. While I didn’t have the wings, my friends said they were legit. Everything else was as mouth watering as it sounds, and SouthernGal (Bridget) is an absolute delight. She’s also a personal chef who does all kinds of events. So, give a Gal a holla if you’re in town.

Speaking of good fortune, I’ll use that inelegant segue to mention how fortunate I feel for the opportunity to view Inland Empire on the big screen. I honestly wasn’t sure it would ever happen. Empire, released at the Venice Film Festival in 2006, subsequently suffered a limited theatrical release and went pretty quickly to DVD. If you happen across a copy, and still have a player, do yourself a favor and buy it. It made its way to the Criterion Collection in bluray, but has been poorly reviewed due to technical aspects beyond my puny technocomp. Short story: apparently it looks bad on bluray. In a greater affront, not all of the special features made the transfer. It would be a damned shame if you couldn’t watch Lynch cook quinoa or the Russian Ballerina spin in circles. IYKYK.

With little follow up, I’ll put this out there: I think Inland Empire might be David’s most complete work. That’s not to say that it’s my favorite, but it’s in my top three. Well, this year anyway. Suffice to say, there’s an ambiguous thread connecting what Cinema Trindade is referring to as the “LA trilogy”. A descriptive I’d never before heard, but LOVE. The trilogy includes Lost Highway, Inland Empire, and Mulholland Drive.

There’s an idea regarding the intertwining of identities throughout various incarnations and timelines born in Lost Highway, a movie that’s about 100% mood, which slithers its way more literally, and ambitiously, into Mulholland Drive. Mulholland Drive is widely acclaimed as one of the best screenplays and films of the 20th century, and you’ll get no argument from me there. However, Inland Empire, takes those “big fish” ideas about identity, which ostensibly haunted David Lynch for much of his career, and cranks them to a white knuckled 11. What follows is three hours of undiluted, chaotic mood, combined with a confident mastery of method. The powerhouse performances, notably by Laura Dern, and Lynch’s use of a digital, hand held Sony, yield something claustrophobically creative. You become a part of it. You can’t look away, even when you want to; but mostly, you don’t. All things, Inland Empire is fucking a tour de force; a real chef’s kiss to the big fish Lynch finally caught, but didn’t fry.

While that was more about the films of David Lynch than I’d intended, I’ll allow it. Because true artists are in turmoil in this treacherous techno terrain. The more artists who decide to outsource their creativity to info-scraping, environment decimating AI tools, the closer we get to hell. But I’ll disembark from that crazy train before I go further off the rails.

The triumph of the human spirit owes thanks, in no small measure, to those committed to promoting physical art, in non-virtual spaces, and connection with the humans creating it. Whether it’s music, movies, or southern cooked food, many thanks to Cinema Trindade and Bar Bar for offering refuge to those who won’t go quietly into the dark abyss of uninspired AI generated garbage.

I’m not certain if they really do, I’ll have to investigate tonight, but I’m willing to wager that Cinema Trindade still has a reel to reel player. They aren’t the biggest game in town; I believe they only have two theaters. There’s no concession, save a self serve espresso machine, and one of the theaters does smell a little like a lake house or flooded basement. But their commitment to keeping it real (to reel) is alright by me. Hey, it even inspired a bad pun.

Bar Bar might not have Peaks inspired cocktails, the kind of music I would play, or Peaks viewing parties. Yet. Who knows what the future holds? We do, afterall, live inside a dream. Or a simulation. I’m pretty sold on the simulation theory these daze. Either way, make art, do spells, love each other, eat soul food, watch Inland Empire. And please! - for the love of all that’s unholy - keep it witchy, fam.

Let’s knock out the basics first: the food. It’s fresh Italian with an interesting take. Most of the authentic, wood-fired pies, which are made with lots of love and fresh, homemade ricotta, are named after musicians and artists. There are pies named after Madonna, Andy Warhol, Van Gogh, Salvador Dali and David Bowie. I’m unsure about the inspiration for the ingredients of these celebrity pies. Is there a reason Madonna and Van Gogh are the only vegetarian options? Or why David Bowie has a starry egg? Would Carmen Miranda approve of her tuna and pineapple combo? One can only wonder.

The pies are fucking well made and, if you can handle the egg, the Popeye might even change your calzone game. In my experience, the staff is super nice and, since everything’s made fresh, they are usually totally willing to sans the egg or sub it out. Of course, they all speak fluent English but, if you’re asking for a modification, a little Portuguese goes a long way.

While the food is great, the cocktails are fresh and inventive, and the local craft beers are both on point and reasonably priced, the venue itself needs a bit of an introduction. The space has almost a speakeasy vibe as, from the outside, the building looks like little more than a parking garage. You have to get on the lift and head to the the rooftop, but there’s not much signage to lead you there. I was halfway expecting something dark and mysterious, but was pleasantly surprised to find a bright, wide-open space containing several rooms, indoor and outdoor seating, and an art gallery.

What’s cool about the space is that it’s perfect for everything they host. For instance, there’s Mupi Gallery in the foyer, displaying “a wide range of solo exhibitions by local and international artists in different states of emergency”. Shout out to Saco Azul, the cultural association responsible for the programming and artistic production at Maus and Mupi. The current exhibition features Heart in Hand by Catarina Leitão and Sleeping with My Demons by Vinicius Lopes. Feel free to check out and support these talented artists.

Maus also hosts several events every month. May events included the Porto Vinyl Market, which I swung by for a hot minute to drool over the vast array of physical media I’m currently unable to consume. Nonetheless, I was impressed with the diversity and sheer volume of vinyl. They also had The Barrar Body Tattoo Fair, which I didn’t attend, but wish I would have, and a bimonthly event called Mom, I want to be an artist, where various local artists, “converge to exhibit a wide range of creative expressions, from impressive illustrations to intriguing ceramics.”

Maus also commonly has clubbing events, such as Hollaback, with turn of the millenium DJs, Embers, a dance party featuring Brazilian Funk, Vogue, Pop, Techno and Afro-diasporic music, and the enigmatic Shuggah Lickurs, which the page describes thusly: “If Bad Habits were a normative fairy tale, our Shuggah would be a prince, a princess, a dragon, and even the castle itself.”

Again, one can only wonder. I have yet to attend a clubbing event and, TBH, they don’t really look like my jam, but I might be persuaded to do one. For research sake. I always say I’ll try anything twice.

I have seen a local band there and it was a great venue for live music. They were a decent pop punk, rock trio from Spain. Unfortunately, I can’t hype them up as I didn’t catch their name. There seems to be plenty more of that in store as they have local punk, post punk, electro experimental, and atmospheric post-metal bands lined up for the next couple of months. You can follow that link and make your own choices. I don’t promote bands until I’ve seen them because I’m kind of a shithead snob about music and don’t give endorsements easily. Suffice to say, I look forward to seeing more shows there and will def report back with must sees.

All things, this is the type of venue that I really adore. I’ve found quite a few music venues that host flea markets and other cultural events by day. Chief among them is Hard Club, which I’ll do a piece on later. I feel like clubs as community centers was a thing that happened in Seattle, back in the day. Apart from being nostalgic, it’s simply a fantastic way to build community and support local artists. I’m a big fan.

Maus Hábitos, aka Bad Habits, is absolutely worth a visit, whether you’re there for a daytime cocktail, tuna and pineapple pie, artistic exhibition, live music, or a party that can only be described as a normative fairy tale, you’re sure to have a blast - Bad Habits notwithstanding. If you’re still not sure why this made the list, I refer you to this description on their webpage:

Bad Habits is a “Space for Cultural Intervention. Founded in the late 1990s by a group of visual artists, Maus Hábitos is a unique space where all expressions are welcome and where everyone has a place.”

So there ya go, fam. There’s a place for you at Maus Hábitos. Cultural Interventions are needed now like never before. Outliers of the world, unite and take over! And don’t forget to stay witchy, crew.

I won’t do an in depth history of the cinema here. Suffice to say, Batalha is The Little Cinema That Could. It’s located on the Praça da Batalha in the historic center, which hosts a slew of authentic Portuguese restaurants and a local artists’ market called Mercado de Artesanato da Batalha. Click that link for info on all the local artists’ markets in Porto. There are tons to support. At any rate, the Batalha Centro de Cinema is an emblematic edifice at the Praça, and I encourage you to peruse their page, paying attention to their mission statement HERE.

Why it’s making the list: First of all, they celebrate David Lynch’s birth and graduation days by showing his films, which always curries favor with me. What’s more, they have a cafe and bar downstairs with a super chill ambiance and great music. I’ve caught them playing Cocteau Twins and This Mortal Coil down there; a definite win. I have yet to try the food, but they have a full bar, replete with local craft beers. The first time I went there, I noticed a framed picture of Laura Palmer behind the bar. Correction, not just a picture, the picture - IYKYK. I fell in love immediately.

To get to the cafe, you have to walk through a bookstore. It’s not a massive store but, the second time I was there to see But I’m a Cheerleader, they were highlighting queer and marginalized film makers. It goes without saying that many of the books are in Portuguese, but they have a decent selection of English books as well.

Also, did you think I’d breeze right by But I’m a Cheerleader? I would never! This surprised me because they showed it apropos of nothing, unless they were paying a homage to Bud Cort, who’d passed they same month. The correlation was unclear, but the unbridled enthusiasm shown by the near full house of mostly 20 somethings filled my little queer heart with joy. It literally restored my faith in humanity to see the next generation embrace this niche queer classic. Moreover, the jokes and references didn’t seem lost on the Portuguese audience, who’d ostensibly done their homework and were well acquainted with Madame RuPaul. Shantay, you stay!

The last film I saw there was another cult classic, perhaps a tad less queer but nonetheless revered, Party Girl. Equally well attended by a fabulously fitted group of queer club kids and gothy 20 somethings, Party Girl’s quirky humor didn’t seem to elude them. If any cultural touchstone was missed, it was likely the archaic use of Dewey Decimal. However, if this was lost upon the audience of cool kids, they didn’t miss a beat as they hollered and snapped their appreciation throughout the film.

There’s another arthouse cinema called Trindade, which I’ll later do a piece on, where I had similar experiences watching Mulholland Drive and Blue Velvet. All and all, I’d say the counter culture in Porto is thriving, especially when it comes to queer classics and avant-garde films. As an avid movie goer and queer witch, very few things imbue me with more pride and hope for the future than watching Gen Z enjoy art house films. Ya know what? The kids are alright.

Much thanks to Batalha Centro de Cinema for providing this much needed safe space that promotes artistic endeavors and integrity. I have a sneaking suspicion that the folks who operate and patronize Batalha would readily embrace the decline of AI generated “art” and subsequent return to physical media. They might even embrace the Decline of Western Civilization, which I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn they’ve shown there.

So, if you ever find yourself in Porto, take a trip to Praça da Batalha, grab a bite to eat, buy from a local artist, and say hello to the cool peeps at the Batalha Cinema, some of whom I hope to interview as soon as I get a new microphone and, perhaps, a lovely assistant. BOLO for that. Until next, friends and fam, stay witchy - and support your local independent theaters!

Hello My Glorious Friends, Fiends, and Lovelies!

Here to promote my self-published novel, The OT Gang. For more context, I originally blurbed it as a queer romance about a hawt kink throuple - and that’s true. But it’s also a very timely tale about queers, found family, the elusive concept of home and, at the center, women reclaiming their power and burning the patriarchy to the ground.

What’s really wild is that this is a novel I wrote during the pandemic. I was forced to put it aside due to life and death. Mostly death. When I pulled it out to edit at the end of last year, I was shocked how much of the hellscape we’re in now I accurately predicted. It was one of the most uncanny synchronicities of my life; watching what I was editing play out in real time.

Writing this in 2020, it was almost difficult to imagine that it would go this far. Man, I never wanted to be this kind of prophet. And yet, how prophetic was I, really? We all should have seen this coming. They were stacking the deck and showing us exactly who they were from the start.

That political observation aside, at least in this iteration the fierce crones exact vigilante justice. If life imitates art, I ardently hope it takes this form. But maybe with less bloodshed. There’s already been too much.

Well, my friends. That’s my piece. I won’t Bernie Sanders you for your support. I’ve kept the price at a very reasonable 6.96, only because they advised me against retailing for 6.66. It’s available at more than a dozen locations, B&N, Apple - almost literally everywhere except rotten Amazon, as I refuse to line another billionaire’s pockets. I’m also working on it making it printable upon request.

Be well, my tribe. Stay witchy, And BURN. IT DOWN.

From my little black heart to yours,

Ane R Key

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE

Yet, not for nothing, even amidst the chaos and hustle, I still managed to find time to self-publish my first novel (link to follow), make my inaugural post here (What’s So Gay About Immigration and Grief? ← see below), and attend a gay pride event. Well, kinda.

I’d hoped to post about this sooner, but the aforementioned crap was a tad prohibitive. I won’t delve into a deep historical explanation here, but I highly encourage you to do a quickie wiki search on The Carnation Revolution, which sounds pretty gay to me. And in a way, it is. But we’ll get there. The Carnation Revolution took place on April 25th, 1974, when Portugal freed themselves from their fascist regime. <See! It can be done>.

This revolution famously got its name thanks to one woman, Celeste Caeiro, who was carrying red and white carnations meant for a canceled anniversary celebration through a protest. When she encountered soldiers, she placed flowers in their guns. Or so the story goes. Needless to say, this is one of the most significant annual celebrations in Portugal.

Prior to the march, the celebration commences with speakers rallying the troops and calling for an end to fascism. Like many protests, they call out other forms of social injustice, such as immigration restrictions, lack of fair housing, unlivable wages, and civil rights violations. This year, with the recent overturn of trans health initiatives by Chega, the far right party, trans and LGBTQ rights were at the forefront. Well, kinda.

Here’s the thing about us gays and our Pride events: they’re ALL about visibility. Every cliche you’ve ever seen, heard, or even smelled holds true. We love our rainbow flags, booty shorts, makeup painted for the back row, glamorous costumes, and glitter galore. This pageantry is often punctuated by snaps, the thwapping of handheld fans, and shouts of “Yass, queen!” into the wee hours. I, like many gays, love every second of it.

Yet, despite all of this being fiercely true, dear reader, I invite you on a little trip down memory lane. The year was 2020 and we were in the midst of that pesky global pandemic. At first, it was scary; people were dying and the loss of life was staggering. By the time May 2020 rolled around, we were all going a little cuckoo watching shit like Tiger King and baking sourdough bread. Well, not me personally. I was busy hosting my Youtube channel, Maidens and Magick, which was its own brand of insanity. Nevertheless, it was a time of hopelessness for many; it left people wondering what, if anything, mattered.

What mattered, and shook our nation to the core, was watching that POS Derek Chauvin murder George Floyd in cold blood on May 25th. For eight minutes and forty-six seconds that armed psychopath kept his knee on George’s throat, crushing his life away. If you observed the national moment of silence on one knee, you realized what we all did: a whole lot of thoughts go through your head in 8 minutes and 46 seconds. It’s definitely enough time to realize what you’re doing and change course.

That wasn’t our nation’s breaking, but our call to action. BLM groups mobilized with impressive efficiency and non-POCs were ready to throw our support, and white bodies, in front of the cause. While thousands of well intentioned straight people stepped up in truly inspired shows of solidarity, I would argue that very few groups of outliers showed up like the LGBTQ community.

If you’re doing the math, it was just before Pride month when George Floyd was murdered. For us, Pride isn’t just the weekend of the parade, it’s the whole damn month of June. I was in DC at the time, and I’m sure you can imagine what the BLM protests and marches were like there. You probably even saw posts and footage on the news. While the queer community spends months planning Pride, it’s not hyperbole to say we scrapped our plans without hesitation, put away our flags, wiped the glitter from our faces, and got to work.

I’m not declaring this as a show of self righteousness or sanctimony. I am saying, in earnest, that gay people know what it’s like to be targeted, victimized, discriminated against, and even murdered for who we are. And yet, we realize, perhaps more than most, that our suffering is nothing compared to the abuse and dehumanization suffered by black people, who’ve been exploited and murdered under the tyrannical boot of systemic racism since time immemorial.

Despite everything the LGBTQ community suffers, every stripping away of our civil rights, every debasement, every hate crime, one thing we fully understand is that we can never fully understand the plight of the black American. Not to mention, every self-respecting gay in the US knows that we’d have nothing, not a single liberty we’ve thus enjoyed, if weren’t for a black trans women, Queen Marsha P. Johnson, risking her life to throw that first brick at Stonewall.

So, yeah, when the call came, you bet your ass we were going to forsake Pride, and whatever else it took, to throw down Stonewall style for the black community. What’s my point in this segue? This year in Porto, after much hemming and hawing, LGBTQ oraganizers decided to mobilize in order to support the anti-fascist movement and march in the Carnation Parade.

They’d initially decided against participating because they didn’t want to usurp attention and distract from the cause. I mean, we queers are admittedly flamboyant and show-stealing. We can’t help it - it’s in our DNA! Almost belatedly, however, LGBTQ organizers realized that our presence in the march amounted to more than a fabulous distraction. Rather, we are part of the reason these demonstrations are still relevant.

The result was a small trans and rainbow flag waving contingency, marching alongside people carrying carnations and signing songs of liberty. All things, it was a rather subdued affair, given us queers and our natural flare.

It was important for us to be visibly unified. Not just because this demonstration is about civil liberties for everyone, regardless of race, immigration status, gender expression, or who and how we love, but because if the fascists win, we all lose.

Let me just say it louder for the people in the back: there will be no freedom for any of us if the fascists win. The rich oligarchs in power are the only people that profit from fascism. If they win, there sure as hell won’t be another pride parade.

So, when I say I ‘kind of’ went to pride event on the 25th of April, this is what I mean: I am proud to be a queer witch. I am equally proud of all the activists out there who, like Marsha P. Johnson and Celeste Caeiro, will never stop hurling bricks at the faces of fascists.

Or, you know, cramming carnations into soldiers’ guns.

Either way, make good trouble. And stay witchy.

So, without further ado, I pose a question: What’s so gay about immigration and grief?

On April 8^th I went into the rental office to pay my rent, as has been my habit since the start of 2026. Historically, I’ve had a great relationship with the guys who run the office, so go there to pay rent in person because I enjoy chatting with them. Unfortunately, this time I was met by an unfamiliar face. He might have been an owner, I don’t know. He didn’t bother to introduce himself. I immediately clocked him as a toxic guy with a sense of entitlement, but I wasn’t even taking it personally. Could be he doesn’t like Americans. You’ll definitely run into a bit of that pretty much anywhere you live or travel. I mean, I think we all understand why Americans aren’t always afforded the benefit of the doubt.

All things, there’s not an overwhelming anti-American sentiment in Porto, maybe because they believe all Americans have a lot of money to burn here. I don’t. I’m not here on retirement or stock market investments. While I am definitely more privileged than many local nationals, I am not wealthy by American standards. I’m an ESL teacher and writer; it’s a rather modest living. The guys at the office seemed to respect that I was a teacher. They seemed like nice, honest guys. I suppose that’s why I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me, then used to roll me up and chuck me into the Douro River, when the new guy tersely informed me I have to vacate my apartment by the end of this month.

When, in a mounting panic, I told him I don’t have anywhere else to go, he didn’t even blink. The absolute lack of sympathy was bordering on psychopathic. I was stunned. I’ve been in my apartment for nearly two years, a model tenant; helpful, quiet, clean. I always pay on time. My head was swimming. Had I failed to express my intent to renew in time? I thought we did that in July? I was going to bring it up that day, in fact. I was led to believe I could keep renewing indefinitely, as indicated by our email correspondence.

Generally speaking, many landlords here prefer a three year contract, so renewing for another year didn’t seem overly presumptuous. After all, there had been zero indication that it should go any other way. I mean, for fucksake, if your tenant of two years was leaving, don’t you think it would come up while chatting? Perhaps a ‘So are you going back to states’ ? Or, at the very least, maybe you’d send them an email or text reminder regarding their move out day and time? Or when to expect their deposit?

But, nope, nothing. And the new guy didn’t give a single fuck. Instead, he coldly remarked that I’d been here too long. Two years? He exclaimed. No, we’re not doing that anymore. From now on, it will be short term rentals only, month to month, nothing exceeding a month. He also informed me that my place was already rented out for the next several months. It was a lot to digest. And then it came into focus: the lock-boxes and keypad entry they installed last month. They’re turning it into an Airbnb. Well, that stands to reason. Both prices and tourism have increased significantly in the past two years. What better way to price gouge?

I did some online sleuthing and found the listing for my place on Airbnb. They’re asking 870 Euros for 7 days in June. I pay 750 Euros for an entire month. But here’s what’s really insulting: while May is mostly booked, as the douche bag rudely informed me, aside from one week in August, my apartment is still vacant. Of course, things could still change but, honestly, I hope they don’t and you lose a shit ton of money, you greedy fucks. Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, let’s circle back.

You may have noticed that I made no mention of an actual lease. That’s right. Fool me once, I suppose. I should have known better than to not get a formal contract. Still, things consistently seem so off the books and by the seat of your pants here in Porto, I suppose I chalked it up to ‘when in Rome’. While Rome this certainly is not, I am another day older and a whole lot wiser. Fortunately, I have resources enough to move, but just barely. And not without a 300 E/mo increase.

Plus, and this is wild, due to some new tax laws, many landlords now want FOUR MONTHS rent upfront. They’re framing it as first, last, and two months for a refundable security deposit, but – still! That’s exorbitant. In the US I only ever paid first, last, and deposit, and they almost always let me split the deposit over a couple of months. Maybe that’s changed in the last three years since I’ve been gone but, for context, two years ago when I moved in here, I only paid first and last, splitting the last over two months.

Well, OK, but how does this tie into my little gay thoughts? Here’s where I get really personal. Take a seat. I moved here with almost no research, and no plan. To be honest, having lived in Germany for over three years pre-pandemic, I had a pretty good idea how much it would cost and the challenges I would face. I moved to Germany on a shoestring budget, and was really only able to do so because I had amazing friends there to stay with until I got my own place. In the friend department, I have been truly blessed.

I had a bit more money this time around, but for the worst possible reason. At the end of 2022, November 6^th to be precise, I lost my mother, Jenny, unexpectedly. She had a pulmonary embolism while driving home to Seattle from my sister’s place in Wyoming. IYKYK, but she was in a shitty little town in eastern Washington called Yakima, presumably gassing up before she crossed the pass back into Seattle, when she called 911. My sister and I later drove from the gas station where her car was found to Yakima Memorial, 60 miles away. It was the longest, most desolate 60 miles we’d ever driven; a drive I desperately hope to never make again in this lifetime. If she’d been back in Seattle, closer to Harborview hospital, she might have made it. As it were, she didn’t stand much of a chance.

Shortly after her tragic and unexpected loss, I lost my teaching partner, a man with whom I’d worked very closely throughout the pandemic. He was a gentle elder gay, beloved by his students and faculty. Working with him was to my good fortune. I was working with immigrants and refugees at a school I really liked. At the time. I believed in our mission statement, and I truly felt like I was making a difference. But our society isn’t equipped to deal with the grieving process. Do you know I only got 5 days of bereavement? I extended my leave past winter vacation but, even after almost six weeks, it was very difficult to return. I wasn’t able to show up for my students, who have always been the center of my work, the way I wanted to. I did my best, but I know that was at least part of the reason I lost my job: My grief made people uncomfortable.

So, I lost my mother, my teaching partner, and my job. But there was one more thing: one of my dearest friends of nearly thirty years was also dying. Dharma was a beacon of light, love, and stability for so many people in her life; bio and found family alike, her students, even strangers gravitated to her bizarre and magical energy. She had stage four, very aggressive breast cancer. She wasn’t given a diagnosis; she was given a death sentence. They said 6 -12 months, but she made it almost two years. Even so, it was an agonizing, painful journey. I didn’t know what to do. I was living in DC, and I know she wanted me to return to Seattle. But, with my mother gone, Seattle was too loaded with trauma. So I packed up and moved to Portugal instead. You know, as one does.

But still, how is this gay? You know, as blessed as I am with brilliant, lovely, creative friends, I was also blessed with a relentlessly supportive, P-Flag waving, proud AF mama. Ever my champion and advocate, her belief in me was unwavering. If you know me, you’re aware that I possess an almost delusional belief in my ability to do any fucking thing I put my mind to. I got that from her. She believed in me like that. Was our relationship always perfect? Oh hell no. We were long estranged. She put me into a psychiatric hospital because she thought I was a Satanist, and I spent two years, 14 – 16, in that evil place. While that’s certainly another story worth telling another time, it’s not the moral of this story.

The moral of this story is how I came to see my mother through more forgiving, and far less judgmental eyes, as I muddled my way through adulthood. While I still can’t condone some of her decisions, instead of hating her for not getting us away from our abusive father sooner, I realized that she too had suffered from his abuse. My mother grew tremendously in her last 20 or 30 years on the planet. She began traveling, studying Wicca, writing, and volunteering for P-Flag and other charitable organizations. She became a caring, generous person; one that I was proud to call my mother. She always said that I inspired her to grow and evolve; that I gave her the courage to discover the world and herself. No, that doesn’t retroactively make her a better mother. But I do believe that she became a better person; one of strength and integrity. I know that, like Dharma, she was beloved by many and is deeply missed.

I realize that I am luckier than many in our community. I’ve met too many people who were abused, kicked out, or disowned by their parents for being gay and/or trans. While times are changing and we, the collective benevolent ‘we’, are more educated and supportive regarding gay and trans issues than we were when I was a kid in the 80’s, we still have a long way to go. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there is a lot of narrow minded, bigoted hate out there. Mostly propagated by men with fragile egos and only one organ smaller than their minds. If they’d just go away, we could finally have nice things!

In all seriousness, I have an invaluable found family, who are equally as important to me as my bio family. I know some of us don’t have bio family, or have relationships with them that are regrettably irreparable. I also know some of us are closer to our fathers than our mothers. I know I might catch hate for saying this, but I will say it anyway: being close to your father is fantastic, but it’s different than the biological relationship you share with your mother. Your mother, whoever and wherever she is, made a mind blowing, arguably even unhinged, decision to carry you in her body for nine months and give you life. I could never do it. I never had the desire to be a mother, and it’s hard for me to imagine what compels a person to do so. Still, some of my best friends ever, Dharma included, were and are amazing mothers. I cannot articulate how much I respect a mother’s brevity. Mother’s are the fiercest women I know. Quite literally, where would we be without them?

Similarly, I cannot express to people, even moderately close to their mothers, the pain of losing them. It’s an inevitability you spend your entire life preparing for. But I promise you: you are never ready. I cannot tell you how surreal it feels to be orphaned in my fifties, to not have my mother to return to should this Portuguese dream fall apart. I mean, rest assured, it won’t. I’ll get through this; I’m tough as hell and I always fall upward. But I can’t tell you how incredibly comforting it would be to hear my mom remind me of that.

So fam, in closing, here’s the really gay part. If you don’t know your mother, or if your mother is an absolute POS who doesn’t deserve your time, I get that. I see and honor you. But if you’ve had an estranged or strained relationship with her, or if you have it in you to give her a chance to apologize, maybe not even for your sake, but for hers, hear and trust me now: please, call your mother.

That and, you know, always get it in writing.

Be well, my tribe. When the dust settles and I’m comfy in my new place I will start the the actual Queer Witches in Porto series. And, who knows, more of this type of stream of consciousness writing might find it’s way here as well. After all, I did casually drop mention of being put into a psychiatric hospital during the Satanic Panic. Is that a thing you’d wanna read about? Also, should I have capitalized Satanic Panic? Someone let me know. Stay queer and witchy <3

Watch me lose grip on reality in my covid era project, Maidens and Magick, which I had a blast making.

Subscribe now