Gamble it

Limber
Callouses

We seep down into an inky valley
24 31 37 38
Distance

4 of us written in history books like madonnas of our own right
No end in sight
From darling to daemon
From beacon to bear

24 31 37 38
4 of us represent cross-points
Each one of unfurled petals
Each one creating the clover
They all stop to inhale (us)

Hailing
Revering
We trot like ponies
On wet earth
But pagan carpets lay the way

Senseless poems written in late night haste
My mouth forms it’s own taste
Of left-behind whiskey

Even if we lose it all
We are fucking golden.

When Artists Crawl Out…

Image

How many times have you met someone and

ached to know them deeper?

How often have you thought that

a real-life story was likely better than any movie you’ve watched in the last 5 years?

How many people around you are full of tattoos and tribulation and the kindest hearts?

This is nothing to balk at. Your experience is reality and most often movies don’t go for that format. For me, I used to pretend I was in a movie constantly as a kid. That there were cameras placed in the plants in my house, that someone was filming me from behind that tree while I walked down the road. Because I did feel my life was that interesting at the age of 7. That one day I would be a star of some kind, that surely I fell from a distant star and it would be recognized soon enough that

I just wasn’t made of this earth.

But that has yet to happen. I live here, no ship has swung by  to pick up my aching bones (and heart). No one has sent me a message in a bottle with a secret inscription stating what my mission is here. I am waiting, still.

But some people go ahead and create that reality for themselves. Some people live an artist’s life that others dream about. Some people chase down art inside themselves like it was the last meal they might have on this planet. One more canvas, one more photo, one more film, one more song… their artist’s legs are built like Jesse Owens’. Made for artistic sprint and jumping into pure air with no fear of what they might hit at the end. Living like this is a beautiful place and frightening for the rest of us.

We all want a success story near us. It helps us keep going.

It pulls our hearts from basements and gives us power when we see another human being in full expression. And we all have that flame, but when we share it… none of it is gone. We help someone else be brighter. Lighting another’s lamp never made our lamp go out.

We have a chance to make a difference in some lives right now. You have a chance to tip your torch towards some souls who are living that artist’s life and need some food for those powerful legs.

They need all of us to make it through this sprint and if we don’t come through, we let another human being fail. This is about making a community out of strangers. About the desire for that real-grit story to be told BY the real-grit folks who live it every day.

This movie is being made by rough-edged tattooed guys who are also some of the gentlest kindest most concerned people you’ve ever been close to, by queer people who have cast out from families, by monied kids who choose to live as artists instead of following their parent’s status quo, by people who knew when they were little that they would hold cameras up to life’s hardships and show them for everyone, by sweet-souled women who wear all the knives at their hips to protect anyone around them, by me, and maybe by you.

Don’t let these people fall, because they are you.

This world has too much apathy to let this campaign go by. There is simply too much heart-on-display to allow this to slip into the night without putting a few freaking dollars in the coffer of the church they are building. A church of Life, truly. Where spires are made from overcoming and the pews are full of stories that need to be told. It’s a place where we have a chance to feel united despite disconnect. It’s a place where we can jump into the game at any time and change it for the better for us all.

Every now and then a project comes along that can represent all of those things and we have the opportunity to know we did something good for someone else, but also for ourselves. Because watching Jesse Owens win so long ago felt like America won.

Help these artists win, for every

single

bit

of

art

that ever lived inside you.

 

WATCH THE VIDEO HERE, and I dare you to not let your heart be moved. But I challenge you to support something on faith.

i am 

as if

you

are in me

velvet skins layered uplifted air barely between

we

lay ourselves submitted over string-laced drying lines

finding patterns in strong-winded tunnels mines

 tiny specks of children’s laughter caress

vocal cords, find perfect duress

in the places where voices crack

become open

i am 

as if

you

were in me

synapses keeping sweet rhythms 

swarming like bees over charisma

find my light under hoards of blankets

kept hushed momentum swinging

ballast never falters in singing

i quiet lulls and prod 

i am 

as if

you were in me

 

Sell your Boots

 

 

 

Image

 

Who the hell am I?

I woke up with that on my mind today. I woke up thinking about my age, my disposition, my funny smile, my way in the world.

I look back at wild vacillations in my life and the whole complete story of heretothere full of antics and scraped knees. 

I am 36. I think of being in my 20′s when I was pretty damn sure of who I was that I was unchanging and thisisthewayitis was all up in my head as I awoke.

I have three daughters. That brings so many things about me into focus and how a person changes as their children change, especially from toddlers to teens. We become different people at the different ages of our children. I don’t think this is who I expected to be when I was nursing and birthing babies in cattle troughs in my bedroom. But there is nothing negative about what I have become. That road I thought I was on just ended up not being the one with as many flowers and trees to climb as I wanted.

I was divorced at 30 after telling my husband I had to think about women to have an orgasm when we were in bed. Hey, not the best blow to deliver to a male ego, but nothing else I said seemed to get through to him about how I was feeling.

So I embarked on a completely new path with my kids in tow, and sometimes they were raw and sometimes I was too raw to do things I should have been doing. But they watched me grow and I herded them into the best places I could. I healed some wounds and got some softer spots than I had previously had. 

I have spent the last 6 years really doing a workover of reinvention. I have not lost anything I had before. I feel like life is magical. I talk to insects. I talk to myself. My kids never stopped thinking I was goofy. I love to make people laugh. But a whirl of changing friend groups (while maintaining the ones I raised my kids with) brought me to new levels of insight and my heart rose up out of trauma with helping hands and souls that stayed close no matter what. 

I crocheted, I made clothes for women-of-size, I did drag shows, I gave nutritional advice and potions to everyone who stopped in, I did some burlesque, I raised 3 kids who are self-aware. I regularly raised money for Houston’s STAG (Some Transgenders Are Guys) community. I met Danny at a function one night when I was emceeing and the rest is history now. 

So here I am, a Pure Texas woman who (literally) sold her $500 cowboy boots and some facewash to get here. Surrounded by snow and living a dream of doing what I am passionate about while the kids are in better schools and I rest my head on the prettiest thing in the world at night.

Is it luck? Nah. Life throws us every direction it can before we discover gold. And it’s all the better that way. These crazy bumps and bruises are worth the world to me and the ability to look back on it and have clarity, even painful clarity, makes for some fabulous appreciation. 

I didn’t dream up this life. It dreamt of me.

Virgin Tamatillo Sauce in my Enchiladas

0930091514

Before yesterday I had never touched a tomatillo in my whole life.  I mean, I had eaten plenty of them. My favorite salsa is tomatillo, my favorite enchilada sauces are always “green” ones. I have even see them on a friend’s counter and marveled at them.  But my relationship with them was like  when you believe that that perfect guy or girl will just never fall for you like you have fallen for them. I felt implicitly like tomatillos were far far above me and they would only leave me in tears in the kitchen if I attempted to tame them with the clumsy hands.

This week, I looked at Simply Recipes.com, which I have been enjoying, and noticed that tomatillos may fit into my life, that I may be able to provide what they need to flourish in everyone’s mouth. So i did it. I did it with no recipe. The only thing I looked up was how to roast them in the oven.  I am not bragging about not using a recipe, I am saying that what I did may actually be sorely lacking it ways to purely accompany this most incredible little fruit.

Tomatillos are mainly grown in Texas in the United States. They are a major part of mexican cuisine and may be intimidating because they are just not quite like anything. They resemble tomatoes, true.  But they have husks!! And their skin is like… well, not like a tomato at all really.

Peel your shirt off, peel those husks off, and lets make some SAUCE tonight!!!

You see above the wonderful vibrancy of the tomatillos, the way they show their skin so teasingly through the lacey husks their mamas gave them.  They are waiting to step out into your mouth.  I have discovered that they more than willingly give you what you want from them.  The lace is all an illusion.

Peel them, cut them in half, place them face down on a baking pan. Broil them for like 15 minutes… maybe less, maybe more, till they look like this.

0930091555

I know this is not a great pic, sorry.  And also note that you need to cut the bottom of that head of that garlic and pop her on the pan too (lower right of picture).

What happens after this is insanely easy. Blend tomatillos and garlic. Salt and lime and possibly some roasted green chilis to taste.

Hello, Old Freind

Our friends become records of who we are. It is not important if you like them or not. It is important that you have a record keeper. That someone sees tracers of where you’ve been. Your friends should feel like they are on acid.

I don’t want feelings to be hurt here because I *love* my friends here, now that sheseesitincolorado. but this piece is not about you. you can miss what you lost and still love what is in front of you.

I miss my friends. I miss the people I have been writing my book with. I miss the people who just *know* when they look at me that I have a secret I am aching to tell. I miss arms that have held me up for years, so much so that I know what the muscles feel like on my cheek. I miss several bodies curled over mine and around and me chasing one across to bed even though they don’t snuggle, I will make them.

I miss staying up all night laughing until I can’t believe I am *still* laughing. I miss you guys. Real bad.

You have my records, man. You’ve got them all. Colorado doesn’t have my records yet. It doesn’t know how I grow and it is not sure where I was last  year, or 3 years before that, but you do. You have seen me through crazy relationships, helped me fuck some pain away on occasion, fucked me just because I wanted to be fucked, and let me fuck you just because I love you. You have taken the notes on all my wild kitchen fiascos and you have stayed late after those fiascos because you knew I didn’t want to be alone, even though I didn’t say it. You have held my hair back over the toilet and you have walked along the Greenbelt with me countless times. You have bared your breasts in almost every place and way possible. You were there when I was nursing zia, when i birthed aurora, and when i went to my first drag show.

some of you have hurt me and we don’t talk anymore. and sometimes i miss you the most. i don’t miss a lot of things about you, but i miss the stories of me that you have. sometimes that is what we miss about people, it’s the time we had with them. they can be shitty and we still miss them, shit we are still in love with them. this is also to my shitty friends. i miss you too. so there.

i miss streets that know me, streets that i grew up on in houston and i even miss putrid dank moist air all over me. i miss austin streets that i had to make new memories on until i was able to walk on old memories as i strolled, sauntered and stumbled.

I miss you guys. you women. you girls, you boys. I am so so far away now and I need to be poked and prodded for a secret to come out. I need for someone to just *know* something’s not quite right inside. I just need to be held by one of your arms, just one. It can be hard for some people to understand how we love our friends so passionately. How we can sit like this and cry and cry and cry like we lost a lover. But i lost several lovers when I moved. I make it a point to be that close to people. Sure, there is the inner circle and the outer and those rotate for us all and we grow and shrink and grow some more.  That’s not what is important.

What is important is the records. They always tell you to get them if the house is burning down. But I had to leave without them all, and I am not sure who I am now.

 

Skin Care Info

You can jump all over the internet while looking up into ingredients of your skin care products. My customers are frustrated and sometimes don’t have the time to go hunting for why I put X, Y, and Z into my formulas. So here is an easier way into my mind…

Check it out here

And let me know what you think.


Top Posts

Courtney Henslee-Kresha

33 year old mother of three daughters. Courtney is witty, truthful, daring, and sexy. She resides in Austin, Texas. Her youth was spent in both Houston and the Texas Hill Country. This lends her raw Texas appeal alongside intense intelligence. For three years, she produced and hosted a popular show on KPFT called WholeMother where her following ranged from young alternative mothers to cowboys looking for wit and a mothering voice. From street smart to rural smart, she drives like a maniac and writes with a passion.

The Days Roll By

April 2014
M T W T F S S
« Feb    
 123456
78910111213
14151617181920
21222324252627
282930  

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 36 other followers