This year (and before that…) has been a landscape of hell for many in our community. I sure as heck don’t need to use this space for reminding us of this f-d up cruel phobic reality.

I just want to land here, firmly planted, in celebration of all of us living as our fabulous rainbow glitter bomb selves. And understanding that who we are is a glorious brilliant light that will never be extinguished.

I was born in 1965. At the age of four or five, I knew who I was. I didn’t have any language for all the things I felt, but I held on to that inner wisdom, even though the world around me didn’t see me, or those like me.

When I feel like I’m not enough, and struggle with habitual body crap, I hear my inner five year old reminding me that I’ve been me all along, and that the world just needs to catch the fuck up. The colonized patriarchal capitalist systems were not created for us, so we need to keep tearing that shit down. I know the soup is thick and I speak as a white person with privilege. But I will fight, waving mightily the inclusive pride flag high in the air, for every lgbtq+ human who wants to be their queer as fuck fullest selves.

So this Pride month, for those who feel they can, let’s be louder than ever, brighter than ever, so that those who feel they can’t do that safely, will see and feel big warm bright skies of hope overhead.

All of us are sacred. All of us are enough. All of us deserve joy, love and fulfillment of our dreams.

Find your theme song, your dance moves, your spoken word, your mantra. Feel the soft stone in your pocket that grounds you in you. Let’s continue to be as courageous as we can and do our best to stand up and speak up and support those who need it.

As Oscar Wilde said, “Be yourself; everyone else is taken.”

(FYI, I’m writing this in a library, so if you usually listen to my Malcast, you’ll hear an AI voice instead of mine. You’re welcome.)

It’s been slightly over a month since Mom died.

That sentence alone is an upside down cupcake.

Not because it’s a reality I’m struggling to face, but because what remains is how I’m facing it.

As someone who knew very early as a kiddo that I was me - queer, gender non-conforming (wow, I wish those words had existed back then, right??), the way I got through the days and nights was compartmentalizing all the feels. That vigilant habit has held strong and now as I grieve the loss of Mom, and that both my parents are now in another realm (holding martinis with an olive if they have anything to say about it) the compartmentalizing is, well, a cold brick of stupid.

So, my spouse, lucky gal, is receiving these sudden bursts of sobs in the middle of a mundane question, like, what do you want for dinner?

WAAAAAAAAH! Sob sob sob, blustering breath, sob, sob. I don’t, sob, sob, snort, know…

It feels like they seemingly come out of no where without a hint of, hey, you’re going to lose your shit in 3, 2, 1! But, I know it’s just how I’ve been wired by this fucked up colonized system. And I need to rewire the shit out of everything so I can live the life I want to. I know that exists inside me as well. I can feel it under my feet. Like firmly packed sand.

In between these moments, though, I let myself wander endlessly, stare out at the ocean, watch birds buzz happily around the sky and drink my favorite beverage, Matcha latte.

At the end of May, we will have to be out of her apartment. It has been a month-ish long slog of what should go where, on top of the emotional thick muck of her loss.

I’m hoping there will be a cloud of relief that will float out of my chest when we lock the door for the last time. That the to do list of death is shorter and the open expanse to grieve and remember her full life will be what remains. And that has no timeline. I was going to say deadline, but, well, she’s already dead.

For now, I have one more day to stare out at the ocean here in my happy place, Ptown. Then we venture back into the apartment and see what is left to decide where it will go. Even if it’s in a big truck that takes it somewhere out of our sight for good. Which can initiate some guilty sobs.

I’m so blessed and grateful to have a loving partner to support me in this emotional chaos, good friends who text with photos of cute dogs and heart emojis. Each day brings moments of feeling this, however it is, knowing that that’s what’s going to be healing.

These two episodes of the podcast Becoming The People with Prentis Hemphill have been a rich resource full of wisdom. I highly recommend this podcast in general, since this our f’d up American culture doesn’t exactly offer an open unjudgy field to engage with death, loss and grief. Or being a human being, for that matter.

Grief Is The Medicine with Malkia Device Cyril

Reverence for Death with death dula Alua Arthur

I also have been listening to Cat Burns’ new album, How To Be Human. It has a little bit of all the feels, exploring sadness, joy, love and sweet queer love. It’s lovely and fun and lifts my heart.

As we all contend with this truly on fire world right now, we all may be experiencing waves of the thick as shit feels. I hope we keep up the fight, take breaks with a matcha latte, yes please, or whatever brings you joy, respite, a pump of love in the soul.

I’ll do my best to show up as best I can in the coming weeks, and more intentionally as things move through me. For now, I will sob when I need to. Even if it’s in the middle of Commercial Street in Ptown. (Like I did last night. Fun!).

Thank you for being here, Humans. Now, it’s time to pet a dog.

As we continue to clean out Mom and Dad’s apartment, I sometimes need to surrender to the moment. The stuff left behind can overwhelm me. Some of it is minutia from a life lived and put in a box in the back of the closet.

What gives me a second wind is the gift I give myself of a walk in nature after a few hours of trips to the trash and recycling closet downstairs. After looking through small black and white photos from the early 1900’s of ancestors I never knew. After inhaling dust from years of Mom and Dad’s declining existence in this apartment.

Nature gives me birds, plants, flowers, smells of spring in the breeze, even a chill in the air that offers renewal in my bones and muscles.

Experiencing loss and grief is isolating. Sometimes I need the isolation. The quiet. The moments in the car to release into sobs. But what brings me back to opening to the world, being a part of something greater than me, is knowing that at any moment, there are thousands experiencing loss and grief at the same time. Right now. And now.

It brings comfort. Not that I want or enjoy knowing others are in pain, but that people and critters have been enduring grief and loss for thousands of years. It is part of being alive. Intimately knowing that death is inevitable and it has arrived for so many. How many others, humans, dogs, cats, trees, earth worms, squids, died on the same day as my Mom? Maybe even at the same time? Mind blown.

For each of us, this road of grief and loss may be similar, it may be vastly different, but it is here in us to know that as we grieve the loss of a loved one, we will find ways to mourn and move through all the feels. So many feels. So many at one time that it’s hard to know what I’m feeling. But that’s part of this too. Being stunned, numb.

Today, I took a long walk along the river. I took photos of what opened my eyes and awakened my restless noggin. And by the time I arrived home, the heaviness had lifted a bit. And I can begin this day, in whatever it has to bring, knowing that I helped myself, I let myself do what I needed and now I can be more awake for the world later and for the long run.

Thank you all for being here. If you feel the heaviness of loss in your bones, I leave you with these photos from recent days. I hope they bring you some ease as they have brought me. And may they be a reminder, we are alive and we are capable of sharing light to one another as long as we allow it to glow within ourselves.

It’s cold out today. Too cold, I say directly to Mother Nature.

Crickets.

But the cold wind is an offer to wake me up. The part of me that is resisting the discomfort of hard feelings.

I can feel them. Lurking.

I know they will surface. It’s the classic New England control that is deeply habitual in me. It’s freaking harmful and exhausting. As most humans, I’m a frenetic clumsy work in progress.

Both my parents are gone now. And sitting with it is not working for me. I need to move, to feel my feet stepping on roots and rocks and squishy earth.

I gave myself the gift of that yesterday. Thankfully, I do also have some common sense. I didn’t push myself to hike a freaking mountain. I didn’t pack the appropriate footwear.

I took a nice long walk around a pond. Full of birds chatting away. Red winged blackbirds were dominating the conversation, amongst Song sparrows, Tufted Titmouse, (mouses? mice? help?), Red-bellied Woodpeckers, a bird called a Brown-headed Cowbird (wtf?), and a frustrated Canadian goose. They always sound frustrated, don’t they? I don’t know why, there’s so many of them. Maybe that’s why.

But, I need to remind myself, constantly, that being in nature is soothing, healing, offers new beginnings, and a reminder that change is constant. These intense emotions are here, I mean, my Mom just died. Hello. But they won’t be with me forever. Like all the CVS receipts my parents saved.

Both my parents are in another form, keeping an eye on me. But the nightly phone calls are done. I can just talk to Mom anytime I want now.

The two hawks circling overhead the other day, a hello from my parents. Whether that’s actually true or not, doesn’t matter. It’s a moment to say hello, and to thank them for this life.

This is my life that I have. Surrounded by so many I love and who love me. My spouse who reminds me every day that I am loved and I matter. And she is my person. How freaking amazing is that? It is nothing short of magical.

I’m going to have these weird lonesome lost difficult unpredictable group of friends stop by off and on for the rest of my life. And a bit more intensely for a while. Sadness, grief, anxiety, frustration, incomprehensible strangeness.

I hope whatever words I managed to plop down here, have offered some comfort to someone going through the shit. That’s what writing does for me. Let’s my brain have a moment to release some of the weary wackiness.

My prescription for myself in the coming weeks, months, whatever. (and I am a clown doctor so I can self prescribe): go for walks, preferably in nature. Listen to what the birds have to say. Breathe in the air. Consciously. Touch trees. Feel my feet on the earth. Offer gratitude. Repeat. Oh and hydrate and eat dark chocolate. Duh.

And as the fog lifts enough from my heart, lean back in to my purpose. Or is it lean forward? Probably leaning forward.

Grateful for this space. Thank you to all who stop by.

Time to listen to the birds again.

I hear you, Canadian goose. You’re okay.

Before anything. Some time to rest.

To rest in the millions of flashes, pulses, jolts and flows of emotion.

As yesterday morning, you took your last breath. While I was stuck in traffic on my way to you. I get it. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

After years of dancing with the unpredictable, unrelenting silent beast of Alzheimer's, you decided this past week, you were done. One week of exiting this plane on to the next.

I am confident that Dad greeted you, along with all the ancestors. Like soft wings of light.

There is much more to say about your life, Mom. So much life you lived.

But for now. A moment to rest in this long awaited event.

I can rest knowing, as you always said, you were “well taken care of.”

We had so many on the Mom team. Your beautiful caregivers made a paycheck far far less than their worth to us. They are family.

You were loved in so many ways by so many as you declined. A bottomless cup of comforting ginger lemon tea kind of care.

It’s time to rest for a bit. So I can have space to reflect. So I can pause before emptying the cupboards in your kitchen. Before packing up, bagging up, sorting through all that remains in your apartment. Before making decisions about what goes where.

It’s time to just rest right here for a moment. To honor your death with light and love and tenderness. You are my Mom. I love you. I thank you for being my amazing Mom. For always being so proud of me. For everything. And for always telling me. What a gift to live with that kind of warmth in my soul. So many are not so blessed. I share you with them. And you would be happy to share your smile with all that needed it.

I’m so sad you died. But I’m so relieved that you did. No more suffering, lingering behind lost eyes. You can rest. Be with Dad.

Soar through the beyond in peace.

There’s so much heaviness in the world right now. Too much stupid unnecessary inhumanity all around.

But there are also many many heart filled, heart pumping, pops of magical joy that happen every day. Today, selfishly, I’m thinking of one. One that I humbly hope has made a difference in many lives.

Today, I am standing in awe that for twenty-nine years, I have been a professional healthcare clown.

If you are unaware of this profession, I’ll keep it brief. But I’m a clown, so no promises. Just potentially bad puns.

We are performers that are trained to bring our authentic silliness to patients, families and staff in the pediatric hospitals we serve. We do this by reading the room, being present, and empowering patients through connections and play.

We offer ourselves as walking permission slips to play, sing, dance, and be magical.

What we get to do is use our human clown essence to help kiddos and families and staff have a better experience in the hospital.

We certainly don’t do this alone. We are absolute collaborators and can only do what we do because of the relationships we have built with hospital staff.

I can only be here now because of all those I’ve been in the room with. My clown partners over the years have made me a better, more authentic clown human.

All the patients and families who we’ve shared stories, jokes, door slams, pranks, songs, magic, just outright imagination parties of epic proportions. Hide and seeks that have lasted beyond anyone’s expectations only because we are all in, saying YES with both clown feet.

There are healthcare clowns all over the world, doing our best to help fill moments in hospitals with light. Today, that’s what I honor. And that I get to be one of them. Still. Twenty nine years and beyond. I could never ever have imagined I’d still be here and still absolutely love what we are here to do. It truly is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Tomorrow, it will be twenty nine years and one day. Yeah, I’m that good at math. But I get to do this. I’m still in awe.

I light a candle tonight for all those I’ve had the honor to connect with over the years, those who are no longer with us, and those who I will meet as we weave and wander through the hallways of our hospitals, plucking on my ukulele, tripping on my own feet. I offer a knuckle bump of wonder and joy and love to all of you I have met and will still meet who fill my soul and make me a fuller kinder version of human that I aspire to be.

Thanks for celebrating this day with me. Now, go do something silly. Just because. That’s an odor, uh, I mean order, from dr. mal adjusted.

If you would like to learn more about our work, or uh, play, go to:

The Laughter League

I am not a poet.

But Nature is.

The older I get, the more I want to learn from nature.

I mean fuck the patriarchy so hard. Am I right?

Here in New England, spring is showing itself.

Today, in whispers and hints and beginnings.

In the midst of this intentionally chaotic cruel violent world,

Nature reminds me that hope always exists.

We have to look for it. Intentionally sometimes. Sometimes it’s a face plant.

Literally.

Renewal. An offering to look for LOVE.

Humans. Can we commit to growing? To learning? To changing?

Nature teaches us it’s possible to find a way.

I want to live surrounded by beauty, art, trees.

And above all - kindness and love for all beings.

This is hard determined work. But I’m all in.

To bear witness each day to what nature offers us.

To grow. To keep growing.

To learn how to be in the world as a human being

amongst other beings (and yeah that means bugs, trees, rocks, etc.)

and live with that knowing, we all matter.

We are all counting on one another to grow.

And work steadfastly to ensure the white supremacist capitalist patriarchy

dinosaur is thrust into fucking extinction.

And when hope is lingering just outside your periphery,

Look to nature.

Or I’ll text you a reminder.

But nature is unfathomably more eloquent than any text reminder especially from me.

I want to be a helper. Like Mr. Rogers spoke about.

I do my best, and sometimes really fucking fail, to be one.

Then I see a green bud peaking out of the dirt.

Even in the tiniest patch of earth, or in a long abandoned vacant lot littered

with human crap.

And I’m awakened to what’s possible.

We humans have a fuck load of work to do if we want to live

in a world that leads with love.

Let Spring remind us that it is possible if we keep growing together.

If we work together to abolish the systems that cause so much suffering.

The natural world deserves our undivided attention.

What I’ve been reading from a profoundly insightful human, an eloquent poet, author and scholarly black queer feminist badass who writes about the connection of resistance, freedom and the sacredness of natural world:

Alexis Pauline Gumbs

The Eternal Life of Audre Lorde

“Lorde’s understanding of survival was not simply about getting through to the other side of oppression…It was about the total stakes of what it means to be in relationship with a planet in transformation.”

Undrowned: Black Feminist Lessons from Marine Mammals

“a book length meditation for the human species, based on the subversive and transformative lessons of marine mammals.”

I can’t tell you how much I love this book.

Take care friends and let’s all continue to wake the fuck up.

As of now, I did the deed, canceled my Amazon account. Wow. That feels so good. Fuck of Jeff Bezos and your sad vile rocketship of greed. I used it mostly for ease of getting Mom’s incontinence products. I’d love to send him all of the incontinence products of the world so he can shit himself. Ok, this took a turn. Let me get back to me.

On Friday, we cleaned out Mom and Dad’s two storage bins, dropped off donations, and tossed a vast amount of stuff into the trash and recycling.

There has to be a better way to say goodbye to the stuff of the past.

My parents moved from their house to their apartment in the senior community in 2013.

Dad died in 2021. Complications from Alzheimer’s. Mom is still here. In a sense. She exists but Alzheimer’s keeps her mind captive - accessing only a shrinking fraction of herself. She lives in the present. With lots of napping. And with short whispers of her long fully lived existence.

This is where we arrive at all the stuff. What they chose to save, intentionally or under stress of change, downsizing, not knowing what was next - is confounding to me in many ways, but also, not surprising, given that they were also only children and were responsible for their parents stuff too.

Sifting through the papers, the photos, the letters, the lists, the brochures. Some painstakingly organized in folders and boxes. Some left to the last minute overwhelm of tired hands full of the minutia within tangled memories.

Mom saved every name tag from every conference she ever attended. A whole full bag of lanyards and pins and plastic sleeves. Each one was a whole weekend or week of conversations, meetings, panels, speaking behind a podium, glasses of wine - all long lost to where conferences go to die. I wonder if there is a place? And everyone still wears a lanyard and holds a glass of pinot and wanders from room to room looking for their focused professional minds?

Dad saved every slide, photo, polaroid, brochure of every trip ever taken. Most documented as only an engineer would - date, time, location, specific mountain peak. Some had temperature and specific direction, ten degrees North East. Ok, not that specific, but I can imagine he would’ve truly known that and noted it as it got filed into a box, only to resurface on Friday afternoon at 1:30p in a stuffy dusty storage room in the basement of their building. See, it’s easy to get lost in it.

As Mom fades, as her memories of her life scatter, we are taking these steps. One at a time. It helps me feel like I have some control over her death. Which of course I do not. But I can toss piles of old magazines into the recycling bin. I can take one last lingering look at the guest list of my parents’ wedding June 17, 1961. Meg and I can stand before a now empty storage bin and feel actual weight lift into the air and disperse. A whole full breath of relief with a task done without urgency, without bitterness. Well, maybe a little. I mean, why did Dad save his old beaten up metal detector that he hadn’t used in decades? Was he actually going to look for lost coins in the woods outside their 3rd floor apartment? Oh, Dad. I know. It was probably just too hard to make a decision. To leave that life behind.

I look at all the books we have in our apartment. We LOVE books. We give a lot away in all those little libraries scattered across Cambridge. But we don’t have kids. So, where will our stuff end up? Let me know if you want any of my half marathon and marathon medals-I mean, what do I do with those?

We are all stumbling around on this planet, with our stuff clinging to us. And then we die. Someone has to deal with all of it. It can be a burden, it can be an emotional ride full of every feeling there is. With my Mom and Dad, it’s all on the table until I take it off. And I’m so grateful that I’m not doing this alone. But many do. We should form a club. We’ll come with garbage bags and fresh baked brownies and allergy pills.

One thing at a time. A life full of so much. Who are they? What is left of their stories? They are loved. The love is what lasts. Well, that metal detector is going to live on too. Somewhere.

Take good care of yourself, friends. Go easy on yourself and your stuff.

I’m enraged and disgusted after the recent news from Kansas.

So, please don’t mind me if I rant and then re-center my Mal self.

I am here. To say. Out fucking loud -Fuck off to the MAGA empty soul-less fragile ego driven politically motivated dumb ass agenda.

You will not win this. You will not push us back into hiding. You cannot strip us of our humanity. We see you. We see right through you. You are the last dinosaurs on the way to extinction. We will speed it the hell up. And we join hands with all those who are targeted, we are all connected. We may have different stories, but we are all human wonders.

For all my trans, nonbinary, gender unicorn fabulous sacred fam in those states that have the most restrictive cruel legislation being shoved into law by filthy corrupt hands, I am here to say, I love you. You are sacred. You are truly courageous beings that dare to be you in the face of all this vile cowardice.

I am here. I will be here. I’m not going any fucking where. I was born in 1965, a Scorpio, damn it, before any language existed that could even attempt to untangle the messy patriarchal misogynist hetero humanity and bring into the light our vast beauty and breadth of who we are.

My whole self is firmly planted on this earth and can stretch for miles into the sky. The earth is alive in us, connected, rooted. We are trees. We swim, we breathe, with the whales. That connection makes us strong and whole. And loudly alive.

I see you. I see you. I see you. For you. For all of who you are.

For those who hatred took from us, from family, loved ones. We will not rest until this world celebrates our sacredness. The sacredness of all beings. I say this for myself. I say this for all of us now. For all of us who have been. For all of us who will be.

For those who are cis, meaning cisgender, meaning not trans, please support your trans friends and fam in this moment. Please support organizations that are uplifting trans voices and fighting for equality.

Please do not ask your trans friends to make a list for you. They have enough to do to walk through this world as themselves.

Here are a few orgs. that I support and follow, but look locally and support those in your communities, that’s where we can make the most difference:

Gender Liberation Movement

A4TE

Trans Youth Emergency Project

And follow updates from Trans journalist Erin Reed

We are here. We are here Forever. And we are loved.

Today is a writing day.

For some reason, this morning, the solid inclination to watch Come See Me In The Good Light landed firmly in my brain head. It’s the 2025 documentary chronicling spoken word artist Andrea Gibson and their partner, writer Megan Falley’s love and life during Andrea’s treatment for ovarian cancer.

I had been meaning to watch it since it was released. Or should I say, came out. You know. Utilize our queer language.

But I hadn’t watched it yet. Because I know how it ends. And I feel the storm of my own story rising in my gut.

As my spouse was leaving for work, literally coat and hat on, front door open to her busy day, I shared from the couch, what I was doing.

“Should I wait and watch it with you?” I ask.

“It’s up to you, Love.”

She left and I kept watching. I needed to. This morning. I just did. No need to search for any rationalization. A waste of time.

I owe it toAndrea’s artistry, their love, their life on this planet, to hit play and sit. (Ok, I had to pause twice to pee).

There’s 11 minutes left. And I’ll pause ( I already peed) to just start writing. Because I know how it will end and I don’t know if I’ll be able to start writing after the credits are roll.

But I do know, I would continue.

So, here I am. Starting. My salty 60 year old nonbinary queer self (I sure ain’t no poet - for real). Who as of this past Friday, allowed my medical oncologist to tell me, to assure me, to send me off, without an other appointment on the books, that I didn’t need to come back.

I am, as far as any human can say (the mysteries beyond the physical world have their own rules, if they even have rules?) done with ovarian cancer. Invisible but whole body felt, diploma in my hand. Letting go, just outside the suite of exam rooms, a few feet away from exiting the waiting room. Letting the tears just run down my face. The powerful puff of air out of my lungs. Gratitude in its fullness.

Here is where I’m going to pause and watch the last 11 minutes. Because I’m still here. I can. I want to honor and hold Andrea and Meg’s story, at least in the context of this documentary, in my heart before I write another word.

I’m back. (yes, I peed again. I’m a big hydrator - if you’ve had hot flashes for over fifteen years, you sure as shit would be too.)

I am absorbing some of the parallels with Andrea and Meg’s story. BTW, if you’ve read my ramblings before now, you know my spouse’s name is Meg. Also, like Andrea’s partner Meg, my Meg is a writer, and her writing makes this world a better place too.

Look up Meg Stone, author.

Like Andrea, I grew up in a time, the 70’s and 80’s, trying hard to figure out how to possibly be me, when nothing around me, was even close. And I know much of the depression, sadness, creativity and depth of my humor are all solely products of living in a reality that was vacant of my queerness. Survival by any means necessary, which for me was my humor and big heart. And my wild imagination. I also played hoops throughout my childhood, and shooting hoops now, not very often, but definitely brings me joy and allows me to feel grounded.

Ovarian cancer announced itself at 43, after my hysterectomy (which I was so fucking excited about because it meant that every month I wouldn’t have to leave my body for the 4-5 days. I wouldn’t have make Meg go to the store for “products” anymore.)

But within the ten days of recovery, as I sat in the exam room for my post surgery appointment, the words “ovarian cancer” came out of doc’s mouth and landed in my post surgical lap. I almost turned around as if she was talking to someone else. I was like, what? But I just had this surgery so I could feel more like me.

I went to the appointment alone. I sat in the car for a while afterwards, knowing I had to go tell Meg. I couldn’t do it over the phone. I have no memory of driving to her office. But I do remember sitting there. We called my Mom together.

2009, the year of the bird. Meaning, my middle finger feverishly waving in the air at my Stage 3C diagnosis.

But I hadn’t watch Come See Me in the Good Light, until just this morning.

I’ve been cancer free since, well, my last chemo, December 7, 2009. I’ll never forget that date. I don’t want to. Because how I thought about my life was never the same afterwards.

I have many friends, family members, and kiddos from my 25+ years of play as a healthcare clown, that are no longer on this planet. They are existing in another realm, including the realm of the chambers of my heart. They are alive and I talk to them. Why wouldn’t I? They existed in the world and they are still here because I know they were. I have friends who have died of ovarian cancer. Who have had recurrences.

But putting off watching the documentary - was also the realm of what has been termed, “survivor’s guilt.”

A term I do not want to uplift. But the emotions that bump around in me still being here in the flesh, are fucking messy. I don’t like them. But this is where art comes in and saves me from an unforgiving spiral. I’m hitting these keys. And I’m finding and flying and not giving up on a theater piece, about my adventures with ovarian cancer and healthcare from the nonbinary queer Mal angle. Refusing to just make do with our patriarchal broken healthcare system.

My purpose for this performance piece, to create a space of belonging, healing, raucous out loud laughter and empowerment for others to be their radiant full selves in their own healthcare adventures.

I never saw Andrea Gibson perform live. I’ve only seen videos, listened to podcasts, read their words in their books and on Substack. Which their partner Megan keeps going, it’s such a gift.

This video of Andrea's poem, Maga hat in the chemo room is what gives me such clarity about how to live. Every time I watch it. Boom. LOVE.

So, do I shrink in my life because the emotional life of having been through ovarian cancer treatment (and surgical menopause that keeps on keeping on) is at times, a shit show?

Nope. I can’t. I have to be here. I have to show up. I have to breathe this life, because for whatever reason, beyond my capacity to even begin to understand, if that is even a good use of time - I have LOVE to give. Kindness to offer. Humor to connect. Dog noses to boop.

I can continue shedding the empty habitual linear march of time that has been drilled into my little kid self by good ol’ New England cruel colonization and capitalism.

Be present to all the wonder around me. I too listen to the Mourning Dove. It’s both a call to all my memories of how I came to be me, and a lesson to be alive, right now. Who do I want to be in this crazy world?

I want to offer more Love, more Kindness, more Listening to the truth of what it means to be human.

That is my offering. I will fuck this up. I know it. But I am always going to try again.

I’ll leave you Andrea Gibson’s words that make my heart soar -

“Nothing hurts more than living someone else’s life.”

“What I want most is to live the rest of my life desperately wanting to live it. I want to give that to you. I want you to believe it is something. When I say I want something of my life, that’s what I mean.”

I say this out loud, well, when I record this fucker, I promise myself and my person, Meg, that I will keep showing up for this life. For myself, for her, for all those I love now and for all those I will love as soon as I meet you. So, get ready. I will do my best to listen to your life as deeply as I listen to mine, because that is the life I want.

Andrea and Meg's substack, latest post.

Thank you for being here. Go stretch and hydrate. Yes and…

Greetings humans.

I was inspired by my Substack pal who shared photos of wild critters enjoying tasty treats. I needed that moment to let out a breath of the bullshit we are swimming in. Before I get back in the fight for all our neighbors, I thought I’d offer some joy, whimsy, and a break for whoever needs it.

Self care, the awareness of needing to take care of ourselves in this moment, so that we can endure and roll up our sleeves for the long fight, is essential. We do no one any favors by jumping in to the fray without a flotation device. Because this time, there ain’t no quitting.

So, here. Exhale. And feel your body sink into the comfy couch of the Malstack.

I’ll share a few things to enjoy and fill your cup. In hopes that you will take a moment to discover or re-discover those things that bring you the joy of play.

I will start with remembering a comedic genius who died a few days ago, Catherine O’hara. And yes, it sucks that she’s gone. But she left us so much to enjoy. This conversation I’ve listened to twice, and laughed until coughing both times.

Wiser Than Me Podcast with Catherine O'Hara

And if you haven’t seen her in any of the Chris Guest films, puhleeez do yourself a solid. As a dog person, this is my favorite! Plus Jennifer Coolidge!

Best In Show, trailer

Music fills my soul, and I am a living room/kitchen singing loudly dance maniac, and I don’t have any hesitation sharing this. A brilliant Boston activist and artist has a new album dropping soon and I can’t wait to hear the whole thing. But here’s her IG for the first song. You’re welcome.

Zakiyyah

And here’s some love and light from me.

And I don’t care if there is two # 4’s! You’re welcome.

In this moment, it can truly be so easy to get overwhelmed and give up. But joy is always here. And if you can find just a nugget of it every damn day. That will remind us of what we are fighting for. For everyone to feel that joy. That freedom to feel full of joy. And to be embraced for it. My joy and love wants to connect with yours. And ripple the fuck out into the world.

Humor is key to getting through this shit candy called life. For me, a daily dose may include:

The Desi Lydic on The Daily Show

And I leave you with one of my favorite comedic humans.

Gilda Radner

Okay. Bye for now. Don't forget to hydrate. Love and may the scent of a frosted maple scone waft over your air space.

Things are heavy. My chest feels it. The hyper wildness in my mind is on almost 24/7.

Why the fuck can’t life be easier? For everyone?

I know the answer.

And I’m trying not to take this time right now to propel myself off the cliff into a sharp edged extended play rant about all the reasons.

I believe in my conviction, my passion, my unending commitment to be out there fighting for what I want for myself, and more importantly, for those who have steroidally suffered from the intentionally inhuman cruelty that is doled out daily since the beginning of white men on this land.

But to be clear. It’s absolutely vital to be present with what is happening and not be frozen by it.

Today, I’m sitting with grief. And they are not being particularly helpful. But that’s not grief’s role, I guess.

There are many who have said this better, but grief has no expiration date.

But today, I listened to a wise and caring meditation. (by Vinny Ferraro - whose voice and vibe sounds like a combination of your favorite pizza shop owner and a monk.)

He reminded me that “what did I love so much, that this hurts.”

And “Grief is just love in another form.”

I really needed to hear this today.

For some reason, and there doesn’t have to be any reason at all, because grief and love don’t follow reason or rules, but I’ve been grieving my Dad more intensely in the past few weeks. He died in April of 2021. Complications from Alzheimer's. Or as the nurse said it to me over the phone at the time, he “expired.”

I know this slowly passing cloud could be (see here I am trying to rationalize this! Hello!) because we are having conversations about Mom, how she is moving towards the end of her life, and it’s time to talk about hospice.

For me, the term hospice, has always meant death is imminent. But, I’ve learned (thank you to my therapist!) that hospice isn’t about imminence. It’s about the care someone needs as they move towards death. My Mom, she isn’t likely to die tomorrow or a week or a month from now. Or she could. But we sit in the room with her. More asleep these days than alert. And it’s not like I know the answer. But, I can feel it - that at 91, with Alzheimer’s taking over more of her unique humanness. I need to have that conversation. For my care and love for her to stay present in my love for her. And the fatigue of Alzheimer’s is wearing on me. (and my spouse! for real. She is my person in this, knows how to manage me caring for myself in these moments of heaviness.)

I’ve been asking my Dad and my Nana for help with Mom. To help ease her closer to her last breath. I heard something on Facebook the other day that was helpful (imagine that!?). It was a medium who helps people understand messages from dead loved ones. And she said, and I’m totally paraphrasing here, that if you don’t feel like you're getting messages from your dead loved ones, or ancestors, then change the question you are asking.

I talk to my Dad. I talk to friends who are no longer on this planet. I want to make sure they know that they are still with me. They are always in my heart. So, I talk to them. I mean, it’s not exactly a mundane conversation,

“Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to say hi. Do these jeans look good on me?”

More like, “Hey. Just thinking of you. Love you. This song made me think of you…”

And of course I add humor to these conversations, I mean. I have to. They’re dead. And if one of my dead loved ones sends a message that there’s endless ice cream and pizza where there at, I’ll be sure to pass that along. Even if you’re lactose intolerant. Cuz that’s probably not a thing there.

What do you talk about or ask your dead loved ones? Do you get messages back?

For me, I look for those messages, those signs. My Dad - when a hawk flies overhead.

My friend Moose, when a cardinal appears unusually close by. (he was one of my beloved clown partners in our hospital work, therefore the bright red of a cardinal. And their song is whimsical).

What are yours? One of my good friends - when she sees a dime, it’s her Mom. (good thing it’s not a penny.)

I know not everyone believes in this - and that’s okay. You do you. For me, it’s one of the mysteries that I’ve always been so curious about. Ever since my good friend died during our junior year in high school, I’ve been fascinated, and so very hopeful, that there is something after we die.

Working and playing in pediatric hospitals, when a kiddo dies, it is so unfathomably sad and hard to even grasp. That someone so young can not be here anymore. I’ve been a hospital clown now for over 28 years, and I will never understand it. Rituals help me to be still in those moments, connecting with that loss, that life that is gone. The older I get, the more rituals I engage in, to help me just be present with my emotions, and to take the time to sit with what has happened. And to honor that life and all those around them.

And I take that intention, that love for that human and bring them with me on a day in the hospital, filled with silliness, laughter, connection, music, dance, scientific experimentation with stuffed animals - whatever we get to roll into that day. It caries my spirit through the heavier moments, that move through my body. And hopefully make me feel closer to myself, and closer to others, so we can revel in that incredible connection of humanity, life, wonder, awe.

As we push for all of our humanity in this moment, in this country, in this world, in the right now, take those loved ones with you, as I take them with me. Let them give us strength, common purpose, a North Star. We will all be ancestors some day. And I hope I’ve made a difference, brought a good amount of love and light to the lives of those I’ve shared a moment or many moments with. (I’m not just including humans in that, I’m including all beings - DOGS!!! and other beings, TREES!, sloths, whales, even Bigfoot.)

As my good friend and fellow hospital clown family member, BB, says, “We ain’t dead and we ain’t done.”

Amen to that.

Take good care of yourself and others in these times. That’s is something we all can do. And damn it if it ain’t worth it.

I’ll leave you with these quotes from one of the wisest humans that ever lived, I hope is in peace and eating all the damn ice cream she wants:

“Pain is important: how we evade it, how we succumb to it, how we deal with it, how we transcend it.”

“Our feelings are our most genuine paths to knowledge.”

-Audre Lorde

To all of those who are ICE verifiers, community care folks, resources and support providers, protestors, caregivers, care partners, all those in the front lines of this fight, I am sending love, courage and energy for us to keep showing up.

To keep showing up - Especially those of us who are white, who have lived in this country and are now beginning to grasp how fucking serious this is, and really, has been, for those who aren’t white. Those of us who have lived pretty much a comfortable life purely because of the color of our skin. This comfort isn’t earned. It’s how this country was built.

This isn't about preaching, not about the shoulds. That’s now helpful in this moment. It’s not one size fits all, we each have to assess how we can be of service in this moment. For me, I grew up in a 99.9% white suburb twenty miles south of Boston. A beautiful contemporary house, three bedrooms, two baths, on a quiet street (well, with a bunch of us kids, not so quiet). As kids in the 70’s, we could run around all day on my street, not have to worry about a thing. A town with a harbor, sailboats moored close to shore. Like the one we had, in which going sailing weekends in the summer was the norm. Boxes of Ritz crackers, Oreos, Cheerios, jars of spaghetti sauce on the shelf and plenty of milk, eggs and cheese in the fridge. (And bologna. Gross. But yeah, that was a thing).

Growing up with the unearned benefits and privileges of being white. That “normalcy” being injected into every aspect of our lives. We were the definition of what was good and right in our country. We could go on road trips in our Volvo station wagon, to Yellowstone Park and the Rocky Mountains. Stop and get gas at a rest stop, and never be questioned why we were there and what we were doing.

At the dinner table, my parents (suburban Unitarians and Democrats) discussed the news of the day. They discussed unfairness, inequity, local political goings on. The crooked Nixon, Watergate, the horrible decision ofVietnam. Reagan’s slick and sneaky sales pitch of “trickle down economics.” Mom and Dad were both involved in town government, town hall, church. Mom ran for town Selectman (and lost to a younger white guy).

But we all swam in the toxicity of our country. When I was younger, I understood some of this from the perspective of living silently as a queer person. I felt it deeply. But I could hide who I was. I made a promise to myself, that when I grew up, if I made it, I would do something about how people are treated differently, awfully, based on these rules carefully crafted long before I was born. So. Here I am. Still at it. In my white ignorance, I thought things may be getting a little better. Obama got elected. Holy shit. Hope is alive. But that technicolor film dissolved quickly from my eyes. No. Obama winning is now fully engaging the beast of white supremacy.

Here we are. Authoritarianism is marching through our streets as we speak. Not a surprise. Unleashed and loaded up with hot toxic self-righteous short tempered brutes. And we are being picked off one by one. Now that they shot and killed a white woman (and make no mistake, NO ONE should be unmercifully slaughtered on our streets by these brazen thugs). But, there are many more human lives that have been just as unmercifully ended by these criminals with badges - and yes, this time it’s ICE, but the police have murdered countless people for doing the same or less than for decades upon decades.

Here’s a list of those killed just from 2025:

Mapping Police Violence

1305 humans. And there were a total of 6 days last year, in which no one was killed by a police officer. SIX DAYS. Let’s sit with that for a moment. I’m not getting into the difference between ICE and the cops. As far as I’m concerned, there isn’t that much difference, the training maybe, but the system of white supremacy is throughout.

For me, abolishing the police is the only thing that makes any sense.

For me, as a queer nonbinary white person. I need to show up. It’s my moral responsibility. If there will be any change in this country, I don’t get a pass to sit this one out. I am willing to take risks for the well being and dignity of another human.

This is the LOVE in action I commit to, for the rest of my life. I will be here. As long as I get my annual colonoscopy.

As a white activist, I don’t know what it’s like to fight in another body. I’ve had to learn, educate myself (that won’t ever stop), look deeply into what I was indoctrinated with as a kid, from the poisonous white supremacist colonized capitalist agenda. Say that five times fast. Ugh. Don’t.

There’s no possible way I could grow up and escape from being racist. This country is dripping in all the brutality of white supremacy. We are watching it, living it, breathing it. It hurts everyone. I think that’s what is hard for some white folks to understand fully - that this system is toxic shit to everyone. Why wouldn’t we want to change it so we all are living in love and respect and dignity? The only ones who don’t want change, who want this country, the land, the air, to remain white, are those that have been broken by hate. And clearly, a lot of them are in power right now. But we are more. We can change it. We can come together and work as one powerful movement. Because if we don’t - Then they will keep coming for all of us who won’t drink their Koolaid.

So instead of being frozen in fear, we have to use our privilege, to be audaciously bold, to step into that fear and take risks, so that those who are, and have been targeted throughout our history, can breathe easier. Isn’t that the least we can do?

I know as a white person, I can go out for a thee mile run, and not even have a whisper of a fear that I may not make it home. I recently read this memoir and call the action, (and as someone who grew up with the prestigious history of the Boston Marathon, and ran it in 2015, this was an important read:)

Running While Black

by Alison Mariela Désir

Our continued comfort as white people is what keeps all humans from being free to live their fullest lives. We need to drum that into our skulls.

Take a breath, a dump, a drink of water and move forward despite the fear, whatever is keeping you from jumping in. Find your place in this. Don’t do it alone. Isolation is part of what, as my awesome Congresshuman Ayanna Pressley says, “the occupant in the White House) and his morons want us to feel. If we stay isolated and frozen, hopeless, we will give up. We cannot.

Join a group of friends, then join an organization in your community that is doing the work. (there are many - google is your friend). I volunteer with LUCE in and SURJBoston (also a national org). Please though, don’t ask those who are targeted to do this research for you. (If one more person asks me what they can do to help trans people, I’m going to puke on their shoes. Think about what Black people have had to constantly endure from us white folks who ask them what we can do ??)

And this is not a blanket fix, you are adults, you know what trauma you may have on your own plate, we have to take action in ways that will keep us in the fight, not drop out because we overload ourselves trying to do everything. I’m not a single parent with three kids, three jobs, a dog, two cats, a goat farm, a food truck, a gluten allergy, a Girl Scout troop (buy their Cookes btw - they are trans inclusive! Not the cookies, the troops!).

Trans Girls Scouts to order cookies from

NONE of what I’m saying is new. And I’m sure it’s been said way more articulately by wiser folks than me. I’m just saying it again, and again. For me, and to engage more of us in this fight. And just in case someone was on the toilet while I said it the first time. We white people, especially the ones living in large houses (or two homes) on over an acre of land, who without a doubt are there because of generational wealth earned by enslaved labor, Jim Crow, Red lining, stolen land, etc. We cannot ever say again, “But I wasn’t alive back then, it wasn’t my fault.” No. We weren’t. But we are responsible. We are accountable for what we do now. For what harm our ancestors caused.

This Ted Talk (13 min) taught me a lot-

Nikki Sanchez, Decolonizaton is for Everyone

Us white peeps staying unconditionally and self caringly and daringly on the road of anti-racism and decolonization, is essential to move further towards those freedom for all - in equitable collaboration, listening to POC led social justice efforts. To be working side by side in this movement. To challenge ourselves to be aware of our white fragility, our unearned assets, so we mitigate further harm to anyone. Interrogating our conscience to open our awareness. Humbly seeing the bigger picture- working together toward a country that someday will uphold love and dignity and respect. Not about being a white ass Kevin Costner savior.

Locally, in Boston, this past weekend was the opening of The Great Privation, Company One Theatre.

If you live in Greater Boston, this is a must see show.

As a working artist, it’s my responsibility to support and amplify new works that tell stories often left out. This is one of them.

Art is essential in creating a world we want to live in. And we all know it’s disgustingly vastly underfunded. Support art in any way you can.

I invite you to take a walk through Central Square, Cambridge. At night, see how murals and street art works are lit up on buildings. 24/7, Graffiti Alley - legal space to do street art. And just opened, Street Theory Collective, art space that “empowers underrepresented creatives.” And Food Not Bombs serves free food in our community every Saturday. It started in Cambridge in the 80’s and is now world wide.

This is something I say to myself constantly - and I say it enough so that it’s part of the fiber of my body and ideally shuts down my racist upbringing.

“Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.” - Fannie Lou Hamer.

Put it on repeat.

And Audre Lorde:

“Your silence will not protect you.”

What’s your North Star? Whether you get there or not, we have to keep trying. All the steps from here to there are what matter. Fill your heart full with as much love and determination as you can.

And I’ll leave you with this song to get you fired up, from Crys Matthews:

I think about death a lot.

A lot. Hmm. What does a lot mean? I’m not going to qualify it with what’s a healthy amount. I mean, I’ve been learning from people wiser than me that acknowledging that I’m going to die is healthy. I mean it’s true, certainly. And to look in the mirror on occasion and say out loud to myself - “You’re going to die.” Is supposedly helpful to move from an unhealthy denial of it. Which this country and culture is so good at.

I mean how many anti-aging face creams and diet ads do I need to be assaulted with on a daily basis. That’s just one of the harms of a now saturated social media climate that runs on capitalism. Another truly unhealthy, one could say deadly, system in the United States of A.

Death.

I know it’s on my mind right now as in an hour, I’ll be driving the 20 miles to see Mom. And for those who read my ramblings on the regular, you know what I’m talking about. The Alzheimer’s invasion that took over much of my life in 2018-19 and still keeps running the clock. No time outs. Except for the ones I purposely take, which according to my wonderful supportive spouse, is not enough for my own mental health. And yeah, she’s right. I mean, of course. I know myself. Trying to beat back the life long current of people pleasing, being perfect, a good responsible child who grew up with loving yet typical tightly scheduled and tightly emotionally woven humans who didn’t understand how to encourage my inner life of sensitivity and emotional depth. Life was more about checking the boxes on the to do list than digging deep into what makes us happy people, what makes us tick. What do I need to be me in this moment?

When a dear friend, part of our tight vibrant circle of friends in high school, died in a car accident, there was a very limited bandwidth to process this trauma in my family. Or anywhere else. This was the early 80’s. It’s still felt in me to this day. And being a closeted queer kid at the time, with all those fabulous hormones galivanting around inside of me, and in love with one of best friends who was also in that car accident. Damn. I still look for ways to heal.

Mom is a fraction of herself these days. As an adult, relating to my parents became easier. Their years made them softer around the edges. They never hesitated in telling me how proud they were of me. Mom still does. It’s such a gift to know Mom has no more access to her memories, but can still show up for me in that way. Truly incredible really, as I know dementia can often trample on the most human parts of people. My Dad became a muttering mess of agitation near the end of his life. One of the last times I was with him, he was examining the seem on the thin sheet of his bed. The scientist still curious is how I framed it at the time, so I could be present. He was no longer really verbal, just utterances from the deep cracks in his brain.

I so wish he could’ve had a better exit. But his exit was at least not drawn out like Mom’s. I find myself caught in between wanting her to die soon and the guilt of wanting that. She spends most of her 24 hours a day in some realm of sleep. On Christmas Day, during our time together, she was awake for maybe a half hour of our two hour visit. The rest of the time, nodding off and on, not realizing the wrapped present was on her lap. I hope this was our last Christmas with her. I also hear what I’m saying.

Death is coming. For all of us. The present, right now, is truly all that we flow from. I do my best to live with that. It doesn’t mean I don’t have hope (And Fucking Drumpf is so not helping, that bloated narcissist needs to go for all the harm he and his dirty handed greedy frat boys are creating. Invading Venezuela is just latest in his fucked up plan to rule the world and get more money by stealing oil. Oh, sorry, tangent, don’t get me started! Just call your Congress people and tell them no more wars!!)

Deep breath. Okay. Apologies.

Where the hell was I?

Oh yeah, distracted, from being in the present moment, which is the point. How do I drive the 45-50 minutes to Mom and ensure my self care so that I can visit without extra weight on my chest? Podcasts, music, breathing, dark chocolate (yesss! 85% cacao please!) and Matcha! Matcha Matcha Mal!

How do I keep doing this for however many days, weeks, year (s) Mom is on this plane of existence. I still talk to Dad. To my Nana. Just asking for help, guidance, a sign. Nothing yet, that I’ve noticed, but I’ll keep my senses attuned as best I can.

For all those reading these words, who are caring for a loved one, I see you. I send you my heart beat to help energize the part of you that needs to keep going. These words are here for me, to help me work through the stuck and coursing feelings, the body aches, physical and otherwise. And for those grieving, for whatever is in your the pool you swim in, let’s keep passing the Kleenex, sorry, the box of facial tissues. Wow, that sounds too clinical. I mean frankly, to save trees, I just use toilet paper. (Check out Who Gives A Crap - TP that cares about our environment, with a great sense of commitment and humor!)

Look at me, doing ads! Oy.

But, let’s take care of one another in this space right now. We all have a lot to bear in this world. Some much more than others. And we’re all going to die. At some point.

Kindness is a key superpower right now. Cliche but it fucking matters. Start with yourself. I just had a really good piece of dark chocolate and a cup of tea. No, I’m not going to do an ad. You’re welcome.

Let me just sign off before I ramble into more tangents about my parents or politics. I need to find a podcast before I drive to Mom’s. Any suggestions? A quality not trite podcast about dogs or animals and people doing good work to help them would be amazing. Or ghosts. Or Animal ghosts. I need more chocolate. Or Matcha. Or both.

Take care and hydrate, and hug the ones you love. But ask them first. Boundaries, people.

Claiming my body as home has always been like navigating the Appalachian trail in flip flops. Not that I’ve ever attempted it, but work with me. Metaphors are fun.

As a four year old, I loved running through the sprinkler, no shirt, in my front postage stamp sized yard, feeling the cool water against my little happy flat chest. I wanted to feel that for the rest of my life.

Fast forward to everyone’s favorite time of life, puberty. I hate that word. Right up there with moist and pus.

Adolescence is only a slight improvement, although it sounds like the name of a fragrance sold at Abercrombie.

“Adolescence. Who will you become?”

I knew as soon as my body started doing its f-d up hormonal interpretive pre-teen dance, I was going in the wrong direction. This body was becoming a traitor. What is happening?! Somebody had seriously screwed up somewhere and I had long lost the gift receipt.

Fast forward again. Ovarian cancer makes its big debut in my lower abdomen in my early 40’s. To no applause whatsoever. A complete flop. But I’m left sweeping up the stage with a toothbrush. I’m so distant from where I was heading before it showed up.

And since then, a long unhealthy relationship with surgical menopause. Or Mal-opause. I’m not a fan. But I sure could use one several times a day. And some pop tart happy moments as if this never happened.

Now I’m the big 6-0. Six decades plus a couple of months. And this body - a few more aches and pains for sure. But still moving. So far, no more stupid cancer. Some sciatica, a whiny right hip, and tired feet. No more flip flops. But I’m here. And I did run four marathons back in the day. But now, all these menopausal weight gain ads are torturing me in my social media feeds. WTF. They hit me literally in the gut. After top surgery in 2021, I thought for sure I’d have finally arrived at my happy place bod. But duh. This is America. Greed, capitalism, and suffering. And we can fix you in 15 minutes if you just click on this link.

Some moments, I am reminded the history is still in me. All of my younger selves still ramble around in this formerly hormonal funhouse. The years of trying to fit in to whatever norms were hurled my way growing up. Those “norms” are still baked in. Deeply rooted. Therapy helps. Moving my body, working out, helps. Having NO BOOBS unquestionably helps. But I’m still a work in progress in regard to the unconditional self love of my body. Days when I feel like shit because I have these new Mal-opausal love handles and the surgically induced belly fat from my disco bus ride with cancer.

But this critical voice I know is not from my inner core. Although it has been an internal visitor since I was born, it wasn’t invited. It’s no longer welcome. My truest voice is becoming louder, resilient and steps up more now when I need it.

And FDT, his Maga asshats, Fox News, and all those who are flinging their cruelty at us just because we happen to be convenient. For all the corrupt nasty opportunists in this country who see dollar signs and their name in the headlines every time they utter some shit-tastic trans hate garbage. What’s the price tag on your soul?

Here’s what I say and know deeply from experiencing life moment to moment, being trans is sacred, is enlightened and is freaking absolute badassery. You can launch as much vitriol as you dare because you will never arrive at what it means to be human like we have. That’s our thing. We are the most authentic humans. And whatever we had to navigate to get here, we have arrived at our most divine selves. And that is something you will never experience.

This body. This home of flesh and bone and soul and spirit and strength and self love and kindness and compassion and NO BOOBS, is me. All me. Some days I may feel echoes of the past that weigh me down a bit, but I remind myself I had to swim in the polluted patriarchal pool.

Their noise will subside, and then they’ll have nothing left but to sit in their inexcusable ugliness. That they have no idea who they are. While we soar in our authentic loving kindness fabulously fierce selves. That’s what it is to be truly human.

Last week, wow, last week, it was a vortex of fun in a small room with amazing humans who leaped in to help me with a play I’ve been working on and am smart enough to know that adding creative kind gifted people is the only solution to moving forward and creating something magical. And I hope, full of heart, humanity and hilarity.

And this past week, we managed to create the right environment for so much to bubble up and into the air, that lifted whatever I had on the page, in my small noggin, or hadn’t even conceived of yet, to all new heights and widths. I’m still floating from the experience. And we had so much fun. Because we created a space where we could all just contribute our open wild and unfiltered selves to the creative process.

This is what to me is the best environment for devising theater, creating a story for the stage from scraps of wonders and shadows in our minds and bodies. Pushing out the edges of what is possible but trusting the process we’ve created together. Listening to what we each bring to the room, to the air, to the story. This is my happy place.

Since the beginning of this idea for a play, I’ve been thinking of it as a solo performance with lots of interaction with the audience. So the audience is my play partner. After last week, there are possibilities that it could make it beyond those parameters. What if it’s a small ensemble instead? So instead of me being terrified of memorizing all the damn lines and that I could be thrown off any moment by some spontaneous creative fun from the audience, or I just happen to face plant tripping on a prop or set piece.I can do what I love most, play on stage with others. Wheee!

It’s one of the reasons, and there were others, that I quit stand up comedy, way back when. I truly would rather be on stage with other creative humans, making mayhem and wild adventures all over the stage. It truly is the best feeling in the world. That connection. That warmth in my heart when we’re all so in tune, listening to one another, to the audience. To feel our bodies breathing, moving, pushing sensations and all the feels out into the air.

So this show we levitated up into the room and up into the wider atmosphere of our creativity, it now has this life that will continue. It’s not all on me. It never really was. It’s this group of creative lovely humans who said yes to joining me, trusted that it would be a rewarding lively loving rich experience and we will have so much more to come as we imagine the next steps.

Let our fun together, our big hearted wildest minds keep saying yes and to one another and hopefully, by the spring of 2026, have something to offer audiences that want to jump on this ride with us.

This show has yet to be named, although the place holder is: Mal and The Cancer Dancers. A play about being a non-binary queer former ovarian cancer dancer in a patriarchal heteronormative broken healthcare system that doesn’t know how to see me. And there will be candy. Guaranteed. And plenty of opportunities to play and discover the connection and humanity we can bring to one another. Because cancer is fun. Okay, no, but this play will be. All of us in the room together will create it together.

So, thanks for being here and stay tuned.

As a creative human, writer, performer, photographer, how I share my stories has always been through that creative lens. And so now that I’ve lived most of my life (I’m 60 now! What?!! No?! YES!!) and having experienced the gradual drip of loss of both my parents, what do I still want to tell, to share, to propel out into the atmosphere? And how do I do that?

I don’t wait. I think that’s what I love about having this vehicle to drop into when ideas, feelings, stories occupy space in my brain and heart. What good are they stuck in that wasteland when I can elaborate here and then move on to being present for what moves me next.

I’m not waiting. Today, I’m going to drop some of what I’m working on, in this space. As a means of sharing, connecting and as a means of documenting where I am in this moment. What creative gobbly gook is pulsing through my little noggin.

This Monday, I leap into a small rehearsal room, buoyed by dear friends, artists and theater makers joining me, to give life to a solo theater piece that for now has mostly lived on the page. I’m so freaking grateful and gleeful, and a hella nervous, to finally arrive at this place where we can breathe movement into these words and moments that I truly hope will impact people in a way that engages their spirit and uplifts their energy toward action and change. And that it will allow them feel the feels, giggle a lot, and feel seen. If it doesn’t then I surely don’t want to waste anyone’s time.

Here is a snippet from the show (which has yet to find a title - help is appreciated!) and is about my adventures as a nonbinary queer human navigating a biologically female cancer (I’m still here btw) and the heteronormative patriarchal broken healthcare system. Ok. You have been warned.

MAL

My name is Mal. My pronouns are Mal or they/them. And I fucking hate pink gowns!

V/O

Actually, they’re blush rose.

Lights shift/sound - time has paused. MAL crosses stage.

MAL

The story of my body is messy. I have deep out loud moments of self awareness, interwoven with distance and disconnection, sometimes an aching insecurity. But always a cellular level of vigilance. The world has daily demands of me that I can’t meet. That I don’t want to meet. How do I dare to fully show up as me? To be so alive as me? Will this fucked up world ever catch up? I want to awaken with ease to all of me. To be seen and believed as my full self, as how I see me. Standing grounded and completely fabulous in my queer nonbinary body, mind, and heart.

(Beat) Ooh, I should get a tattoo. I may ask for suggestions later.

Light shift

But ovarian cancer arrived in my 43 year old body. Barging into my bits like a flashing red STOP sign.

(Sound/Light effect?)

V/O

Actually, it’s dark blood red.

Sound cue: Horror music stab - from Psycho or something similar

Volume of medical sounds speeds up/warps

And scene!

Okay, so are you intrigued or no? At the end of the week, after running around in our small rehearsal room, I’m hoping that I’ll have a decently clearer direction as to what still needs to be worked out. And, that we’ll have destroyed many pink gowns in the process.

I’m also working on three novels, two are middle grade fiction and one is young adult fiction. All while still trying to find an agent/publisher for my debut novel that I’ve been working on for over ten years and really really want it to be in the world. And like now. I’m growing fatigued by the traditional Children’s publishing world that has thick high walls that are frustrating to leap over. But as I repeat to myself over and over, never give up. I know I will get there, I’m still seeking the way forward. (BTW, if you are interested in reading a middle grade novel about a non-binary 11 year old who faces cancer treatment while their newly adopted pittie mix dog goes missing, and never gives up looking for him, no matter how shitty they feel, let me know. I’ve had many readers over the years, including agents who have read the entire novel only to say, sorry, not a great fit for at this time. Waaaah. But as Elizabeth Warren says, I will persist!

The other novels are all in various draft modes, so it’ll be a while before they’re ready for the cozy lamp on your night stand. But stay tuned, please. Thank you. But I will share nuggets of what they’re about. One middle grade novel is about a queer youth summer camping program that spends weeks hiking in a forest, and the protagonist may or may not be finding Bigfoot. But definitely does find out things about themselves. The other middle grade novel is about a nonbinary middle schooler and their basketball team who fight the school committee because their mascot and logo are racist and harmful. And the young adult novel is based loosely on my experiences in high school, in the early 1980’s, knowing I was queer but having to navigate keeping all my feelings towards a classmate and friend a secret. And a deadly accident that changes everything.

Here’s the first page-ish of my completed debut middle grade novel:

Welcome To Chemoville

Chapter 1 The Plan. With extra drool.

How do you tell your best friend that you have cancer?

I should tell her while we’re in a bouncy house. We’ll be bouncing and laughing our butts off so much, I can say it mid-bounce and Dev probably won’t hear it. Or one of us will have puked. I could tell Dev using a kazoo? No one understands anything when you talk into a kazoo.

Aaaah! I need more time to come up with an actual good plan. I could tell her after shoving a whole bag of marshmellows in my mouth? Or while I’m in one of those giant inflatable dinosaur costumes?

The porch stairs feel warm under my butt as I rub Zeke’s soft as mittens triangle ears. A warm breeze blows through my thick short hair. I don’t even know how I feel about this stupid cancer thing let alone how to explain it to Dev. Words are tumbling around in my brain like Zeke’s tennis balls in the dryer. Dev’s going to be here any minute. I need more time. How am I going to say it? I could act it out like a bad scifi movie using only sound effects and my Yoda puppet? But Zeke chewed off one of Yoda’s eyes, so that would be a bit weird. Or would it? I hate this! Words get in the way of everything.

Dev’s Aunt died a year ago, from drum roll…cancer. Maybe I can ask Zeke to tell her and she’ll get totally knocked out by his breath.

“Zeke, can you learn English in like the next two minutes?” I drop my chin on his warm head. His tail thumps on the wooden stairs.

The cancer I have is called Hodgkin Lymphoma. Who came up with that name? I need practice saying it out loud. Even though when I do, it’ll make it more real. What if I don’t say it at all? Maybe it will go away.

“Should I just practice saying it to you, Zeke?” His tail thumps some more. “You always listen. You don’t get mad or impatient. Unless you have to poop.”

He replies by licking my face to death. Ooh. Wrong word. I definitely need practice:

“Hi Dev, how’s your day going? I have Hodgkin Lymphoma. It’s a cancer that has large weird shaped cells. Want some Chex mix?”

Maybe Dev and I can make up a better name. Something less cancery-hard to pronounce-sounding. It might help me feel less numb and underneath that, something else? Like, we could call it Gummy Worm Cancer Party Mix, because they’re weirdly shaped and squishy but are super tasty. But then no, because I could no longer eat them. I’m freaking myself out! Thoughts are flying around in my head so fast it’s like there’s a hurricane in there. My brain needs to duck or it’ll be hit by a lawn chair.

Mom turned 91 on December 2nd. She didn’t know it was her birthday. She didn’t know how old she was. She did know she didn’t like the idea of being 91. She did love that we were there with her. I wish I could just say to her, with all the love in my eyes flowing into hers -you don’t need to hold on anymore. Your life is not yours as you would want it. It’s controlled by a cruel impenetrable disease that is only going to make you less you. It’s time to go, Mom. You are not living. Not even close to how you would want to live. And it’s so hard to witness and experience this slow continuous loss of you. My hope is that she falls asleep one night and doesn’t wake up. But this is only a wistful wish without an anchor. And so we continue with what is. She knows who we are and that she loves us. And that is so much more than many have. Maybe this year for Christmas, I’ll put something in the eggnog just to assist in getting more in the spirit of things.

For now, the promise, the commitment, the necessity to keep going, to show up for what moves me, has to maintain being a priority. I know I will slip, the ol’ self-sabotaging habits may jump in the way from time to time, but I know those are temporary blocks. And I’ll do my best to blast the F of them out of the way and keep showing up. This is now. And I’m grateful and radically amazed to be here.

Thanks for being here with me. Love to all. And a spiked egg nog if you so wish.

6-0. Sixty. Hmm. I haven’t reached it yet, there’s a few hours ahead of me. But right now, I don’t know how I feel about it. Is it a big deal? I’m a queer nonbinary human living through the Trumpocalypse and I’m alive. So in that case, yeah. But instead of sitting here, trying to come up with perspectives, I want to take a different tack.

I’m offering myself the opportunity to shout out to the universe a few experiences that resonate with me as to my life thus far. I know I sure won’t remember everything, and so I don’t want to bore you with an endless list. I think Jane Fonda called this kind of exploration a life assessment. I’m not going to get too heady about it right now. I’d have to dig through moldy decaying boxes in the basement full of my journals. No, thank you. This is just for funsies. An experiment after a substantive amount of caffeine. And I may do it again. So you are now warned.

But I’ll share a few moments that are still wedged in my lukewarm murky mind. From wide open mouthed awesome things, to those that drop me into the aching pit of my gut. I’m going to play some tunes as I do this to encourage memories to flow. Feel free to do the same. It may make it less tedious and self involved. Or an opportunity to open yourself to your own list of life reflections, with a warm self care blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

These are not in chronological order. My brain is about as sharp as a camel’s ass.

Here we go:

Mom making me a Batman costume when I was in first grade.

Meeting my first gay adults during sex ed in 8th grade. I kept this nugget of hope in my mind for the rest of my childhood.

Falling in love my sophomore year in high school. But having to hide it. It was the 80’s, ya’ll. I still feel that pit of fear in my gut that I felt going to school every morning, thinking, this could be the day someone finds out I’m queer and it’ll be all over.

One amazing human who was a big part of our circle of friends, died in a car crash my junior year in high school. It sill echoes deeply in me. Her smile lives in my heart.

Going to college and having so many crushes, but never coming out. Too much homophobia. And softball.

Coming out to my parents after getting cast in a super campy queer play in my late twenties. Between my blubbering sobs, they smiled and said they were so hoping I would tell them. They have always been superheroes of support. I share their essence with all those who didn’t get what they deserved growing up.

I marry my person. We are some of the first marriage gays after MA legalizes equal marriage in 2004 (couple #147). We got married at an Audubon Bird Sanctuary. Meg’s Mom wore a skirt with feathers!? And my Mom wore a dress that clashed with Meg’s. But they love us fiercely.

I get stupid cancer in 2009 at the age of 43. Chemo is about as much fun as watching The Titanic in slow motion and on high volume. But I’m still here. Somehow. And I’m starting rehearsal soon on a show about my experiences as a queer nonbinary human cancer patient navigating a broken patriarchal heteronormative healthcare system. Stay tuned!

Running the first of four marathons. The first, at Disney, to honor a dear wonderful vibrant friend, TC, who should still be here, dammit. His laugh lives in my soul. Like I said stupid cancer, it stole his vibrancy from this world.

But training and running marathons helped me start to heal from what cancer and chemo took from my body and spirit. And from losing him.

Creating a fun interactive show, The Pineapple Project in 2015 for kids with my bestie Becca that explores and celebrates gender identity and expression, so kids can embrace who they are. We’ve performed it over a hundred times in libraries and schools. Meeting so many brilliant kiddos, we hope got a burst of love and fun from us! But right now….this type of show is considered “illegal”. Don’t get me started.

And now, a random and thankfully for you, shorter, list of adventures:

Norway, running up a mountain in rubber boots with my cousin and getting blood blisters on my feet the size of quarters. Worth it!

Zip lining in Costa Rica. Woo hoooooo!!

Galápagos, seeing seal lion pups, Bluefoot Boobies, Iguanas, Frigatebirds, a Galápagos hawk, Galápagos penguins, scorpion spiders, scorpions, and more all from just a few feet away.

London, seeing so much theater and meeting Broadway legend André de Shields. He’s so kind and beautiful!

Being an adult advisor for eight years with NAGLY, North Shore Alliance of LGBTQ+ Youth. The youth taught me so much!.

An experimental job starting in 1997, becomes my purpose as a healthcare clown. And allows my to truly understand what it means to be human through the experiences with kiddos, families and staff who for a few minutes we are invited into their lives and connect with our human energy, creating something magical.

Knocking on doors with my spouse in PA for Kamala Harris and having amazing conversations. Including with a man named Steven, who had so many Kamala signs on his property, along a busy road, and hearing his stories of energetic supporters and nasty asshats as he sat on his lawn several hours a day as cars drove by. He is a bighearted human.

Getting to go along with my spouse and Impact Boston, and be a part of building relationships with our Indigenous friends and collaborators of Turtle Mountain Impact. A total life shifting experience. Understanding much more deeply the centuries of horrendous harm and cruelty that continues in Indigenous communities, and the absolute celebration and dedication and pride of their cultures and its resilience. Being invited into a sweat lodge and experiencing something I cannot describe other than sacred, gratitude and spiritually enlightening. I have much learning to do, and I am unquestionably committed to uplifting Indigenous voices.

Joining SURJ Boston and the Indigenous Solidarity group.

Meeting my comedic heroines, Carol Burnett and Lily Tomlin. For real. Lily with her arm around me, as I was wearing a powder blue tux jacket and black bowtie.

Being a book spouse as Meg published her first book and getting to go with her on book events. I’m so proud of her and what she’s accomplishing, living her purpose and being someone who I truly look up to as contributing so much good to the world.

Her book: The Cost of Fear by Meg Stone

Loving dogs so much. Spending the last twenty years volunteering at The Animal Rescue League of Boston, has provided me with good wonderful friends - both with humans and dogs. I have learned so much from dogs. Unconditional love, patience and how play is so important. For dogs and everyone!

I apologize, this is so loooong. There are so many experiences along this bumpy windy adventure that have changed me, hopefully for the better. Or made me understand more about myself and what’s important. Loss and grieving are a big part of my life as well. All of this, makes me more.

I am grateful to be here. And I do hope my wacky Mal existence on this planet makes a difference for those who I happen to stumble into along the way. That’s my intention. And eating as much dark chocolate as possible.

Leaning in with love, humor and kindness. Those are always my aspirations moving forward, if I get to have a few more years. And kicking Trump’s orange stained ass out of the White House. Who’s with me? I don’t want to end with that.

Thanks for being here. I hope you weren’t too bored and if you did fall asleep, had a nice restful nap. Take good care and Happy Malloween!

If you’re town or city or state is still honoring this enslaver, thief and distributor of nasty diseases, find out who your local Indigenous tribes are, what they are working on and support and amplify their voices.

In MA, there is an Indigenous led legistlative agenda.

“The Agenda includes 5 priorities:

• Remove Racist Mascots: Prohibit Native American mascots in Massachusetts public schools.

• Honor Indigenous People’s Day: Replace Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples Day to celebrate Indigenous resilience and survival. The change acknowledges the true histories of colonialism, genocide and racism that Native peoples have experienced and continue to face.

• Celebrate and Teach Native American Culture & History: Ensure that schoolchildren in Massachusetts learn about Native American history, culture, and current issues.

• Protect Native American Heritage: Ensure Native American funerary objects, sacred objects, and objects of cultural patrimony held in governmental or non-profit collections are not sold for profit.

• Support the Education and Futures of Native Youth: Improve educational outcomes and opportunities for American Indian and Alaska Native students.”

Now, you would think that in Massachusetts, a blue state, a more progressive state, that many of these priorities would’ve been passed already. Yeah. Sadly and frustratingly, no. Every state has its slowly churning bureaucracy. MA is no different. And all you have to do is look at our state flag to know that we have a lot of work to do to honor and respect the humanity and dignity of the First Peoples of this land.

MA flag

See, am I right? Awful. There is currently a committee, that includes Indigenous leaders, to design a new state seal. But this is long overdue, without question. And if your town has team mascots and logos that are racist, work to change that. These stereotypes are harmful to all students, because they perpetuate the inhumanity and objectification of Indigenous Peoples.

MA is known as one of the homes of the first fathers and founders of this fragile democracy. We have The Freedom Trail, a tour throughout the streets of the city of Boston, that thousands of tourists and students tread along every year. But who’s freedom in included on that trail? Who is hailed as the main local heroes who ignited the American Revolution? (as you may have noticed this whole 250 years celebration happening?) Paul Revere on horseback, bounding through the streets…and so on and so on. But the Freedom Trail is highly problematic if not downright offensive. This is not to take away from those who fought to break away from British rule, but the history so many of us grew up learning, including me, excluded so many, so much history untold. Stories hidden away, buried, erased.

And so many, scholars and academics and activists, very much smarter than me, have said, if we leave out the stories of those who were here, who suffered, who were harmed, who led the fight in their own lives and communities, if we only learn a small fraction of history ( of white people told by white people), and what we learn is decided upon by those in the majority, then we keep ourselves from achieving the ideals that we all hear that America is founded on. I’m not saying anything new here. But because I grew up learning this warped curriculum, it’s important to say it out loud again and again until we change the curriculum.

The genocide, the enslavement, the interment camps, the boarding schools, the Jim Crow laws, the lynchings, the redlining, the stealing of land, the gerrymandering, the broken treaties, the genocide of bison, the disenfranchisement, and on and on.

When we don’t recognize the truth of this country, when we don’t tell the full unfiltered truth of this country, when we blatantly deny it, or mutate it to serve our own agenda, we arrive at where we are right now in this country.

When we could unflinchingly lean hard into the ideals we uphold, that we the people control the government, that we decide our trajectory for who we are and what we believe and how we enact those beliefs, that we believe and will act in a way that fulfills the promise of equality and freedom for all. ALL.

Those original sins as they are referred to, are still here. Still echoing throughout our country. There are still those who believe we are different and not the same and not supposed to be equal. That have a twisted sense of how this country should move forward, maintaining the systems of white supremacy, patriarchy, xenophobia. That white rich men should be the only truth tellers. The only ones that call the shots. That we are all experiencing is our demise. And it is happening now. And it’s been happening since we started this whole experiment.

I believe, and I sure as hell hope, that those people are in the minority. That those people are a dying last desperate clinging few whose chance to stay in power are not far from being extinguished. And we the people, who believe in the humanity of all of us, will stitch together a framework that holds us all accountable to the equality, freedom and LOVE of all of us to live peacefully, in our families, in our communities, in our towns and cities, on this land. To resolve conflicts with respect and communication. To finally deal with all the fucking guns with rational human commitment to nonviolence.

This day is Indigenous Peoples Day. As a white person, whose ancestors came to this country from Norway, from Britain, and because of the horrific policies, lies and myths, they received assets stolen from the original people here. They received acres and acres of farm land that was stolen from the Anishinaabe (MN) and from the Cherokee and Shawnee (Kentucky) it is my responsibility to understand and learn from that history, to find ways to repair it by listening to Indigenous leaders and taking actions they advocate for. And where I have lived for twenty five years, the Massachusett, Pawtucket (Cambridge, MA) what can I do to repair?

I can do many things, I can support and amplify the Indigenous MA Legislative Agenda. I can donate and volunteer for local Indigenous communities, attend events, buy products made and sold by Indigenous artists. I can continue my learning, reading books written by Indigenous People, attending webinars, watching films. I can listen and learn and from that place, decrease the harm, my own, and acknowledge the harm my ancestors caused. We all can do something to repair what happened before we were here. It is our responsibility to. It is how we can begin to heal what is so broken in this country. We can see one another as full human beings, complex, radiant individuals who are part of something larger than us.

We all must do something. Being overwhelmed is not an action. It is a state of mind. It has to be temporary. Because we have to work hard right now to tell the truth, to make connections with others who believe we can achieve a true democracy. What other choice do we have?

Today, is Indigenous Peoples Day. Fuck Columbus. Fuck the egregious legacy of Columbus.

Learn about the people who lived on the land before it was colonized. Thank them for being incredible stewards of the land. Let it encourage us all to be better stewards, as we are only here temporarily and what we do matters. I love whoever came up with, there is no Planet B. YES. That’s who we need to live. Self care and earth care go hand in hand.

I will keep learning how to be a better human and I will hold myself accountable to make the change I want to see. I want to live in. Even though at almost 60, I may not get to see it! But those behind me deserve it, and those here long before me, deserve it all the more.

Links to for more info and resources to support Indigenous led action:

Lakota Law Project

To find whose land you live on or your ancestors lived on:

Native Land Map

Interview with my amazing friend Shanda Poitra, ED of Turtle Mountain Impact, the first Indigenous led Impact empowerment self defense org:

Turtle Mountain Impact

United American Indians of New England

Donate to land rematriation (I volunteer with an Indigenous Solidarity group to help on the farm through SURJ Boston (Showing Up for Racial Justice) :

Land repatriation of the Nipmuc People

And in MA, contact your legislators to support the:

MA Legislative Agenda

And required reading/listening:

Braiding Sweetgrass

Thanks for being here. Take care of yourselves. We have good trouble to make.

Beauty, wonder and awe swirl around us, along with the increasing horrors and cruelty.

You are quiet in your eyes. They are open, but they are still.

Sleep comes often. Taking you away from us. From the now. Where do you go?

Reading you aloud the words of the day. What do you hear?

What connects doesn’t endure.

This is a good thing. This is a bad thing.

You are alive. But you are not.

I want you alive. But I don’t.

Long days of sitting. Watching the light turn to dark.

TV glowing across the room.

Time has no real punctuation anymore.

Riding a perpetual wave between the loss and the gain.

Your hair has never turned gray.

Mine is turning every day with the exhausting unplayed out unknowns.

A shift may come soon. Or not.

Fear or relief. Grief roams the landscape.

Stability is just a concept we’re trying for now. Tomorrow could be the phone call.

All will change. For worse. For better. For mourning.

For now we sit. Not accomplishing much.

A lonely heaviness lingers in my chest.

Awestruck at the sunrise. Here’s hoping.

For what?