Tag Archives: art

// nude //


Take my nimble eager hands, lead me down the darkened halls of your mad and thickening fantasy. Show me on this body that I’m the crime of a past lover’s unrest and the keeper of codes long buried under shipwrecks at the soundless bottom of an ancient sea.

Tug at the edges and refuse to stop. Drape the concrete midnight sun and snake your expert hands around my wrists, offer me everything. Spread my imagination wide as starless navy skies, pierce my soul with the beautiful sting of a dying winter.

Creation is the way we close our eyes, new life is danger in my bones fully drawn. I have risen from the clutch of a thousand graves, I have been bled of my mistakes by the shadow of streetlamps on pavements in the splitting rain.

The sharp blades of light on your chest remind me how many times I’ve shattered to be rebuilt like this. Spill your mess onto me; I will cleanse you, feed you, wrap you in the searing fires you had been ashamed to touch.

Spin the moons in my mind with your gravity, rake your fingers steady across my desire as I drop my defenses down.

Make me surrender all the words I no longer need as you suspend my ragged breath between your teeth. Bring me to your secret, sacred room and turn the key.





// trouble //


I am, even to myself, a strange and beautiful trouble.

Even in stark stillness I am a relentless expansion, a curiosity, a sin.

I am an indulgence, a soft and ripening ache.

I am a mystery, a wild collection of deranged contradictions to the things you want to see in yourself as you look at me.

I like to stroke a thing until it derails.

Pummel it to the ground and search its insides for clues.

I am the heady aftertaste of the way you are afraid to feel, and I feel deeply, probe hungrily, into those shadowy places you neglect, dismiss, judge, ignore, reject.

Your disturbance electrifies something in my bones, the oddity of you, the unlikelihood of any of this, wets and fills even the driest rivers, sends them rushing back from the dead through me.

I am not a problem. I do not need to be fixed or corrected.

This life – my life – is an ecstatic, rugged, savage territory and I feast upon it all.

Heaven and hell tangle within me, both are teachers, both are guides, both are Love.

Trouble is evolution is freedom is treasure. The most tragic of all are not those who struggle but those who concede.





My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// phantom //

FullSizeRender (15)

And some day, maybe today, someone will read your words and they will not click the like button, and they will not leave a comment. They will not follow you or praise you or reach out to you.

And you will not ever know that they were here.

But they will have been changed by you. They will have been deeply caressed and loved through your words, and they will nestle into them, collapse into them, fold into them, keep them tucked inside the beating of their fragile heart all day, all night.

They will not say a word or leave a mark, for in the reading of your words they will be left temporarily unable to find their own.

Some words are born so that others may feel safe to die.

And all of this you will not know, for there will be no outward sign of the crossing of your hairline paths.

But your soul bears eternal fruit by the nourishment of this brief, secret encounter, for it knows of your having touched this phantom figure in the shadows. Your soul can see what you cannot; it knows what you cannot. It has always known.

This is the knowing you sense in the pressing whisper of your inspiration, calling you to begin, again and again and again.

Asking you to write for the invisible ones, that they may see.

These are the wings of things we seek to create for and don’t know why. There is a reason, though it is cloaked and shrouded in mystery and legend.

There are souls who come just to take a peek. Let them come, let them, let them, let them.

And on days when you feel you have nothing to be grateful for, that you are failing in faith and footing and love, you may be grateful for the ones who came to pass without a trace.

And remember again the greatness and strangeness, the vastness and beauty, the certainty of God.




// crush //

FullSizeRender (16)

Some days it comes upon you in crushing waves, you can’t hear it but you can feel the pressure pressing in your ears. The monstrous mounting curl of the push to birth your creative thing plunges you to the bottom of your own inner abyss.

Free fall.

Your hands are fierce but helplessly slow against the darkness all around.
Everything you try to touch becomes punishingly deep and quiet as black ice.

You don’t dare breathe.

This is the place, the sanctuary, the cave, the distance between the two of ‘you’ who try to exist in a world neither quite recognize, where neither quite belong.

This is the altar you lay naked on and trust the light will come. You keep your eyes closed and listen with your nerve endings. You open your mouth and find your breathing but it’s not the same kind.

Some days the Muse is a beautiful beast so powerful you can scarcely believe you let her in.
And on these days, when you surface again and tell no one, what’s done is done.

Be grateful.




My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// knots //


all these knots inside
I need them
bite on them
admire them
offer them
to you with your
blue clay hands.
move your thumbs slow
my celestial chest
straight and narrow in
maddening designs
until I come
you have done this
with other creatures before
it takes no time
at all.
and one by one you
reveal to me the
kingdoms within kingdoms I keep.
you tell me I am
safe outside my skin,
that I am eternity in heat,
that I am an ancient geometric
you must taste to
there is no
other way to remember
you have no
and as you build your burning cities
in my heavenly
darkening mind
I am allowed to



~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// watch //


Writers are spooky creatures. We concern ourselves too often with every sinister, seductive, tragic thing, pin our skin to brutal sensations and wait.


We seem to imagine there’s a puzzle inside of us that fits into the puzzle inside of everything. Such arrogance, such faith. Everyone is a clue. Every touch is annihilation. Every face is the possibility of salvation or the grave.

Writers are demons, gods, angels, train tracks, machines, tricksters, mobsters, bombs, wristwatches, lovers, strippers, criminals, skyscrapers, bugs.

But then maybe we’re all writers.

Maybe everyone is just terrified they’ll run out of words.




// silence //


your silence lives inside me
snakes around the tender parts
that hurt and beg,
that would crawl a thousand miles on holy water to
drown you underneath.
while i’m busy with carving sandcastles, hiding
from the sun and servicing the afternoon,
your silence pours hot ocean waves over my chest,
lights a cigarette and
spends the night.
it wets the cunning valleys of my body down
in streams, courses through my veins
as i imagine your
my knees on the pavement, i’m praying for you
to remember my
your silence watches me
tongues the carnal wreckage of my darkness
licks the burning pages, tears and
discards them.
undone by beautiful delusion,
i know what this looks like
and what it does to you.
a single butterfly moves its wings
inside a shot glass
between my teeth
on the other side
of the world.
my perversion of you is handfuls of
machine fingers measuring my neck
dressing and undressing me in animal skin
shed by the gods who walked a dying earth
i press my limbs against dreams with rose petals for
gasping at the gasoline air you would feed me
but draw instead back in.
your silence it lives
inside me;
striking match after
match as
it speaks.



// desire //


I am the consummation of desire.

I hunger and thirst and scream inside to quench an endless aching cycle of desires, wants, needs – some real, some required, some imagined, some sought, some denied.

This is how we breed and are bred.

Celestial oscillations between the shred of frustration and the collapse of molten satisfaction.

But the dangerous, the taut, the mysterious, the rare human creature will invoke a need without intent to satisfy it. She will hold herself within the tension between these two poles to find that satisfaction is not the pulse, anticipation is.

A willing mind hung inside this suspended place develops an affection for the unlimited richness, an overflow of toothsome sensations and experiences which exist only inside that electrified space between satisfied / not satisfied.

What a crime to live a life chasing nothing in the end without savoring the chase. How tragic to be ignorant to the divine clutches of raw frustration.

That which we deny, denies us.

What mad ecstasy to dangle on a hook, torn between the pleasure of attaining our desires… and the pleasure of not.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and affection. x

// art & sex //


my sex in your mouth like
summer melting glass over steel city buildings
but i know better
that all we ever truly seek
to erect is
that the only real stimulation
is a taste of the torture of desire inside
a mind that finds its own reflection beautiful
in the awe struck through it by
wondering at the strangeness of
twisted creature as
mad as
the glory of art,
the hunger of passion,
the fall and rise of the crave to give and receive pleasure,
is ultimately a swimming out
toward fear
in the heavy hopes of
getting beyond it to a
place of peace.
you before me with your face
and your tears in my
we seek to know how to save
ourselves, how to release ourselves of
something we must break free of, some flawed way of thinking or being from which we
seek absolution.
we want to know, ultimately, intimately, in raw human form,
the gripping power of our own
divine mystery.
we want to be one with the Self beyond the self,
the Self that is free of these bodies we
obsess over, these alien bodies with their demented burning needs and their curious imperfections.
art and sex are creative
acts of faith, acts of defiance,
little spinning feathers of death.
the blood and sweat,
the pulse of this life,
the advancing pursuit of

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// kneel //


the bend in the river
matches the way my
body turns away from itself without my
when i write
i’m suspended somewhere between the life
they need me to live and
the death none of us will
inside i can feel the moons orbiting the planets and the
crushing energy of their cyclical motion excites me
i am the frenzy of the chaotic light and the nectar of the
infinite dark
i am the lion and the
the altar and the sword.
i’m stretched in two, pricked by everything and awash in oblivion
trying desperately to worship
something intolerable
while begging
forgiveness from something i
in case you thought i was perfect
or a mess or
not trying hard enough
believe me, these things have difficult faces
that reach for me.
my mouth is a red velvet
maybe i owe something i cannot
maybe we are all after something
we think and pray and hope is
if i kneel before you
would you know
who you are?
life is not easy when
the air i need is your tattooed flesh
and suffocation is new life,
when i dream in the colored ribbons of madness
and this self-conscious world deflowers itself
for the gray.
the catastrophe of love is freedom
laced with
and somehow we keep
on with

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// riotous //


A writer is always writing. It is not something that ever leaves or sleeps.
Writing is an alien life force living itself through you.
It is born of you, gnaws on you, touches you in places so tender your only blind instinct is to kneel and listen. Writing is divine command, one hand on your throat as the other traces the curves along your sides.
The word is the shape of your shape, the gap between your thighs.
It is the collapse into rage, the madness of hunger, the fire you swallow and can scarcely believe.
Poetry ruptures in cascading waves from the motion of my lengthy body twisting in white sheets, I watch myself in dreams as you find your way across my steady breathing, slow.
Words like claws scratch their black rebellious ink in dark rooms I keep hidden in my psyche, centuries of breeding stories threaten to be told, forcing their rough thumbs against my patient lips.
When it’s time, I speak, and not before.
There is a creation I’m becoming, a creature at work on a canvas behind my eyes, inside my veins, it rises and spins, pulls at my lungs and my organs, I emerge for it bound and willing, we advance toward another place.
Prose grows swollen, thick amber honey in the way I scream inside a contracting womb for the pain beneath my skin at birth.
I’m hypnotized, transfixed, muted, strung out on flashes of light on the ceiling as you wrap my temptress hair in braids and I pray.
Like thunder slamming against the hollow caverns in my chest, the words take my breath in sharp clips and deliver it back to me in tremendous, crushing waterfalls, plunging over my grateful body, washing me clean.
Cold glances meet my reluctant gaze, I look to you and reach for something you carry in a place you’ve not yet seen, but I know where I left it when we came together last. You were a letter I was too terrified to send. I want to place my hands into your stomach and melt you, take you there against your will and watch you in ecstasy, this magical decay where all your senses are exceeded, expended and depleted.
Heavy footsteps against wet city streets, cigarettes for fingers, your graffiti back against the wall, all of it writes itself in the echo of typewriter keys punching on the screens running mad, the scribbled reels of static white noise ignite my riotous mind.
Flames writhing, licking at the edges of the sacrificial pages of my torn frustration, the way I imagine my wrists taste like metal wounds in your mouth. How I wonder what we are searching for and how we know the scent of homes and humans we’ve never built, never led, never kissed, never met.
There are words within me always, I part my lips around them in silence, in seduction, in the destructive core of every buried desire, in my inexplicable readiness to risk the full exposure of my bizarre script of uncomfortable perversions for them to see. Fear is never far from Love, one is the lurking thief of the other.  A dance we learn, the art of the way we play for keeps and returns.
Writers are always writing to die and writing to rise.
I am as the Creator created me Feminine, Masculine, Human, Divine, to deliver the keys to the doors to freedom and offer them as they open, one inside another, inside another; we are the gates and the guards, the beggars and the masters, we are the windows opening into castles in the sky.
These words in my head I need them, these words you’ve just read, I belong to them. I have come here for them, for them, for them until the end.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// alone //


Alone is an animal, hunting and slaughtered for meat.

Alone is a criminal, thieving and caught by knives at the throat.

Alone is a deity, breathing and death for five thousand years rising up through your rib cage, staring back at you in the mirror, speaking with newborn tongues.

Alone is poetry eating itself, becoming itself, words created and starved on the disrupted exposure of human bodies in full orgasm.

The words don’t need anything you don’t have but they won’t commune, they will not burn you, they will not pray for you, they will not bear succulent fruit for less than their worth.

Present yourself, bow into them, swim out to them beaten and blind and they will hold you like the fearless hands of God.

She will bow beneath you, reach inside your blood and offer you back to yourself.

Alone is worship at the bottom of every violent river only to recognize the fear as the maddening feel of wet caves dripping inside your mind; it is nights under a moonless sky begging forgiveness, begging entrance, begging release.

Alone is waking at the swell of dawn in the quiet rain, touching yourself with the ghost hands of another who knew you once more intimately than you now know yourself, and waits like a lion in sharp blades of tall grass for your return.

Alone is sacrament, alone is masochist, alone is ritual, alone is feet on the floorboards walking through seven painted doors down a vacant hall.

Alone is handcuffs and liberation, broken pianos playing themselves in the dark.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// bare //


Lay bare your softness.
Close your eyes and let your vulnerabilities fall in the darkness like heavy punishing rain.
I will take your tears into me like oceans of perfect stillness on the moon.
Let the sorrow splinter inside your mind, erupt over every inch of you, make you hot with surrender.
Let it in everywhere, let the gaping mouth of this terrible void devour you, drench you in the wisdom of her infinite healing waters.
Let Love have you, angel.
Let it press your war torn body against the floorboards.
And as the brutal weight of your crippling illusion collapses in raging spirals of ancient galaxies falling from the vacant sky, let go, let go, let go, let go.
This is strength burned into your flesh like beautiful scars.
Let the pain spark along your bones until you are consumed in the fires of release.
Let Love become you, own you, bloom a thousand blood red rose gardens inside of you.
You can take this, you are a vessel for all of this, you are the gift.
There are no acts of Love that cannot set you free.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// continuum //

photos hills2
It’s as though everyday I wake up already searching for something, yearning before my eyes even focus in the dusty light.
I’m already roaming forbidden halls, haunted by something that is centuries old and restless.
Quiet like a stare.
Something intimate and beautiful is out there and we are reaching for each other, we need to borrow again the skin we shared once.
A love, a tragedy, a treasure, a mistake. An exception to my useless rules.
A body, a touch of sensual mischief. A moonlit forest in my hungry chest.
Some days we meet right away and the desire is sated for a while. Some days we meet almost too late, in a final breath at sunset.
Some days are spent entirely in static suspense and divine frustration – agitated, unfulfilled, disturbed.
But there has never been a day in all my life that my insides were not alert for this thing. That I have not made my soul available to her with reverence and devotion.
Hopeful for some way to connect with this graceful, wandering spirit I seem to have had once but lost.
Life is a continuum.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// lumen naturae //

FullSizeRender (13)

aroused by the sheen of night
i search within her aching folds
for the release we’ve been
too long
deep penetration of this thirsty spirit as i close my eyes
and enter into you
i accept and reflect
all of you
your divine feminine hands
reach from within my dark and lustrous womb,
where before the first Thought of God
i became the tunnel of infinite darkness
within the spark of the eternal light.
this is where i wait for you, patiently;
stroking the gruesome silence
of a desolate landscape no one else
can see, but with the patterns in my blood
i recognize her breathing.
we unlock our raging souls from the rusted cages of
a thousand corpses
to become a richly pleasured and
chaotic seethe,
communication without sound, beyond symbols,
alone together and heavy with longing,
nourished, caressed, resurrected.
i worship and hold space for you,
faceless forgotten deity, you have spoken to me before the Word before
my bones could be conceived, you who seeks radiant entrance
into me
through the lost eyes of your hungry,
ravaged. exploited.
i am open as wide as the world
is broken.
i will listen with a single smoldering
return to us your tortured magic.
destroy and rebuild your temple, priestess,
where light swallows the dark
and dark swallows the light
and the broken and the pure
may finally

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// feast //


my ravishing predator, the
ghost of you
takes beautiful shape
and walks at my side
the days
since that day,
walks through me.
it is
collecting me
one piece at a time.
borrows my heart
bargains with my pale body
at my back and
forces its tongue
where it should not
but i don’t stop the
skeletons dressing in my
they grope me at length
for a desperate
a web of moth nerves that
feeds on my mouth as their wings
a feast where i feast
anything to keep
them agile
and me alive.
you move your grayish eyes
like handsome stacks of headstones,
turn them to look
at me as
i burst into flames.
fires consummate the curtains and race across the sky
i am at home
ashes to ashes
your burning breath takes finally my lungs
and a brilliant carnal
darkness drops
over all

~ Allison Marie Conway ~


My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

Why A True Artist Has No Competition


We walk a thin line.

Some days the line can feel sharp as a razor’s edge, in fact.

Like walking a tightrope in the sky, strung up across two high-rise buildings. (One might imagine. I mean, we’re artists not dare devils. Or are we?)

As artists and creative critters, we walk a line between love and ego with every piece we create.

If we dare to create the work we deeply want to create – the kind that screams to be let out but also scares the hell out of us for risk of exposing too much of our fragile selves – that line can cut like a hot knife down the center of our insides.

It’s a cut that can feel like it’s opening us and killing us at the same time.

Continue reading

The Greatest Creative Advice for Artists. EVER.

FullSizeRender (4)

Being a fairly upbeat sort of person who shouts from the rooftops about how fucking phenomenal it is to be a beginner, I also tend to be the sort of person who gets herself into some shit.

And let me just tell you: I’m in it now, kids.

So deep am I in it, in fact, that I am writing this blog post from an undisclosed location and may or may not be wearing 3 day old (wait – what’s today?) sweatpants.

As of NOW it’s full on, full throttle, full frontal (well, except for the sweatpants).

I am neck-deep in the wild tidal throws of finishing my first book of poetry: Vein.

We’re so close now I can practically taste the textured pages brushing against my eager skin. (Ya damn right it’s a sexual relationship. If you think I’m not going to make mad passionate love to this book you have gravely underestimated the degree to which I have lost my filthy mind over this project).

Continue reading

How to Love Yourself to Victory In Times of Great Struggle


It kind of feels like a punishment instead of a help when you are in the midst of what seems like a major existential crisis and the only slim advice you get is “relax” or “it will all be okay” or “the universe has your back.”

It feels like you’re bloody (bloody, tho?) doomed, in a way, when you’re bombarded with these disjointed pop-spiritual messages that sound as though all you have to do is simply fit in to an angel-cookie-cut-out version of the higher truth or plug-in to some secret code for self-love that everybody else seems to have figured out but you.

One of the things I rail against is being told how it is, how it has to be, how it’s always been. I’m not interested in being force-fed (or force feeding anyone else, frankly) a slew of complicated systems or beliefs or rules. I want, desire and actively seek out a spiritual connection that works.

That’s why when I delve into spiritual (and creative) study / reading / practice / action, I consciously try to be sure I approach with a mindset of willing openness, of loving curiosity, of a strange sort of reverent playfulness.

Continue reading

Is It Time For a Change? Always Remember THIS Before You Decide.

fern gb

You know that punchy feeling you get when you’re slammed with stimulation from every which way but not one damn sliver of it actually inspires you?

(Oh, wait, my bad, lovers, that’s every day in this our hyper-charged, bizarre world where we are relentlessly poked and prodded by the media that has somehow managed to photo-shock us straight into the clutches of bogus-ly, passively numb.)

It’s that dull frustration of: different day, same old bullshit “inspirational” quote (that says some mundane, generic thing like “DREAM!” surrounded by smiling stars and scores triple digit likes in under a minute  because . . . seriously?)

Sometimes we just want to shake things up, we need to shake things loose, bust out of the monotony, change course, swing left while everybody else is going right, try something new.

Try something bold. Something unconventional. Something that might not work. And it’s the “might not” that gets your limp hairs finally standing on end.  You want to do something just for the mystery of it.

You can’t explain it – it just feels delicious.

One side of ourselves (hello, ego, you punk) says making a change is a stupid move, This side of ourselves is busy dumping cold water on our hot adventure of an idea with thoughts like these:

“But that’s not what they expect from you. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not what you started out to do so how will it look if you change / stop / screw up?  It’s too late. You can’t change direction now. The only acceptable way forward is the way you’ve been going lest you are admitting defeat / surrender / that what you are doing now isn’t working (HORRORS).”

Then there’s the other side.  The side that doesn’t believe in stupid.  The side that believes you were made to grow into a bigger version of yourself. This side of ourselves is determined to fly with very cool thoughts like these:

“Hey love, people will say what they want but you know what though? What about the F word? Hmm? What about FUN? What about just follow the joyful idea, the one that lights you up inside, and see what happens?”

Ironically (tragically?) the struggle to decide for bigger joy is very real. We want to reach for what would truly make us happy, but we’re terrified of how that will make us look. (Facebook has trained us to be egotistical maniacs well.)

Stuck in this kind of tug-of-war, we can spend so much time analyzing just to get to the same (boring) answer of “Don’t.” that we stay gruesomely stuck and button things so perfectly up that we succeed only in missing out on all the glory of trying something new.

We deny ourselves the goodness.  Why are we so damn afraid to indulge in the doing of what we love just because we love the feel of it, the sound of it, the clever / weird / stealth / not-the-same-old-thing of it?

Who cares about likes / comments / status – none of that means anything if we aren’t ENJOYING OURSELVES, you guys.

do ya gb

(Incredibly important side note, wild things: this is a blog post about making decisions like: “Hey, maybe I should start that crazy ass art blog I’ve been dying to start but I’ve been afraid people will think I’m lame.” NOT: “Hey, I’ve been thinking about ditching my husband / wife / children / financial responsibilities and Allison Marie over at Glorybegin.com seems to think that’s a swell idea so – screw it! I’m out!”  We’re talking about creative exploration not the unraveling of lives, you dig?)

We forget that it is perfectly okay to try a thing – to jump in and just see what happens – to let ourselves be alive – be here now.

Somewhere along our little way we stopped taking the beautiful chance of “It feels fresh and new and that sounds fun – let’s just try it and see.”

But this is the juice, the thrill of the creative life we say we want to live, isn’t it?

I didn’t get into making art to feel stifled – lord knows there’s enough rules everywhere else in the universe. I won’t stick around where things are an artistic drag.

Why would you?

Art may just be the last place on earth we can be our most honest, raw, truest selves. We must stay true to that spirit or what are we left with? Another shell? Another shallow, hollow “Dream!” meme?

Fuck. That.

Your creative life is where you call the shots – all of the shots.

Don’t ever, ever give that up. That’s the lifeblood of an artist, of a creative warrior.

I started writing a blog because I desperately (I’m not even being dramatic, troops – I was clawing my way out of a thing when I started writing again) wanted and needed the freedom and pleasure of creating my own thing in this big world.

So maybe it was just a tiny blip in cyber space but it was my blip damn it and I was going to do it my way. Mine. (Of course, my way at the beginning was to publish a fashion blog on which for the first solid week and a half I did not know how to upload photos. You can imagine the legions of hip and trendy fans I attracted upon launching.)

The tug to try something new is an invitation from the universe for you to play, to move. Because as long as you keep moving you’ll figure it out. You’ll figure out how to upload photos (and take much better ones). You’ll figure out what you like and don’t like, what works and what doesn’t. You’ll figure out your style, your authentic voice.

You’ll figure it out, babe.

Just don’t spend so much time “figuring” that you never let yourself out of the cage.

The Muse moves, morphs, changes. It’s a lover’s game.  She keeps you guessing.


For me there is no way to separate my spirituality from my art. When I say Muse I’m saying Angels, I’m saying Intuition, I’m saying Higher Self.

And this Voice, this All Knowing, All Loving, All Encompassing Creative Energy wants me in the game. It needs me in the game.

Any glory I’ve ever known has come from trusting that being loyal to creating with my heart and soul is what being alive is all about. And when it’s time for a change, I move. Most often, stepping into your bigger self isn’t one big giant leap – it’s a million small steps in the directions you believe in.

“It is not sacrifice to wake to glory. But it is sacrifice to accept anything less than glory.”

A Course In Miracles

We need to stop playing so small, so calculated, so much like we’ve got our arms tied behind our backs. If we’re so busy tying ourselves up, how will we ever reach out and touch each other?

Move, babes, move. That’s all I’m saying. Dance, try, stumble, do something that might not work.

Make a choice for your grandeur, your magnitude, your greatness. Step toward what you are dying to become.

“It is essential that you accept the fact, and accept it gladly, that there is no form of littleness that can ever content you. . .

There is a deep responsibility you owe yourself, and one you must learn to remember all the time. The lesson may seem hard at first, but you will learn to love it when you realize that it is true and is but a tribute to your power. You who have sought and found littleness, remember this:

Every decision you make stems from what you think you are, and represents the value that you put upon yourself. Believe the little can content you, and by limiting yourself you will not be satisfied.”

A Course In Miracles

If it’s time for a new direction – it’s time.  Believe it. GO for it.

Trust that instinct. The more you do, you’ll see that as you keep moving you’ll get better with it, feel more confident in trusting that you can dance around within your art. You can zig and zag and pull ahead and sneak around from behind.

The creative life is one of expansion – we can’t help but to move out further and further and keep claiming new territory, new land. That’s the freedom we talked about last week. The freedom the artist dares to step into.


After a while, I knew the fashion blog had to morph into something else – I could feel it. I knew that as much as I adored me some killer sexy Stuart Weitzman boots (I mean), I wasn’t obsessed with fashion enough to keep going in that direction. (Obsessed? Yes. Enough? No.)

I was eager and hungry to write and speak for inspiration of the soul, to write about spiritual topics and to expand my reach to all types of artists, creatives and seekers.

So I moved out and moved on. I followed my desire and my heart and kept going.

Because when you move, you create forward motion, you summon and attract momentum. [Click to Tweet]

It doesn’t have to make sense, you don’t have to know where it’s headed, sometimes you just have to choose to do what makes you deeply, genuinely happy.

Remember you, love?

Why did you get into your creative adventure?  Is it feeling stale / old / tight / boring / like a “job” instead of like a sensual seduction?

If so, why aren’t you changing things up and stepping into what feels right for you? 

What if you just did it?

What if you didn’t have to explain your new move to anyone?

Because, angel?

You don’t.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Dear Ones,

I have a special announcement to share with my email subscribers only.  Sign up at the top of this page to make sure you don’t miss out on exclusive content & updates.

As always, I thank you for your support & engagement.

It means more than I could ever say.

All my love,

Allison Marie x