Tag Archives: life

// silence //

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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
release.
my knees on the pavement, i’m praying for you
to remember my
eyes.
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
alone
only
decades
ago,
i press my limbs against dreams with rose petals for
fists
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 //

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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 ~

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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 //

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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
knowledge.
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
another;
a
twisted creature as
mad as
we.
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
hands.
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
solace,
is
treachery.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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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 //

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the bend in the river
matches the way my
body turns away from itself without my
help.
when i write
i’m suspended somewhere between the life
they need me to live and
the death none of us will
escape.
inside i can feel the moons orbiting the planets and the
crushing energy of their cyclical motion excites me
everywhere.
i am the frenzy of the chaotic light and the nectar of the
infinite dark
i am the lion and the
lamb,
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
don’t
understand.
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
confessional
of
words.
maybe i owe something i cannot
ever
recover
maybe we are all after something
we think and pray and hope is
release.
if i kneel before you
would you know
exactly
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
pain
and somehow we keep
on with
the
breathing.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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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 //

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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 ~

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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 //

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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 ~

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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 //

sorrow

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 ~

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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 //

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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 ~

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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 //

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aroused by the sheen of night
i search within her aching folds
for the release we’ve been
too long
denied.
deep penetration of this thirsty spirit as i close my eyes
and enter into you
willingly;
i accept and reflect
all of you
fully.
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;
still
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.
wandering
children.
i am open as wide as the world
is broken.
i will listen with a single smoldering
mind.
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
unite.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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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

The Greatest Creative Advice for Artists. EVER.

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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).

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How to Love Yourself to Victory In Times of Great Struggle

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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COMING SOON!

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

Why Creative Freedom May Be Holding You Back

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There is something an artist does bravely, without asking and without being told.

There is no instruction manual on how to do this thing right or how to ensure it is “successful” by the world’s standards.

And yet just doing this one thing is reason enough for an artist to call himself a success.

It is the reason she does her most soulful, moving and beautiful creative work.

It’s happening now all across the world. You might be doing it.

In fact, I KNOW most of you are doing it (and doing it damn well, by the way, lovers, bravo).

What is this elusive thing the artist dares to do?

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How to Get the Love You Desire (Fast & Easy)

We have to do more.

Right? I mean, what we’ve done isn’t enough.

Right? Because we’re still lost and confused and aren’t exactly sure what we’re doing or should do next (quite possibly it’s chocolate, though, whatever the fuck it is).

On some existential level (and to sort of box up our random idiotic cravings and shove them under the proverbial bed) we simmer all this vague “needing” to do the “more” down to “needing more love.”

We seek for love.

Don’t we?

We look for love in everything – we want love from our family, our dog, our kids, our killer abs, our boy/girl/friend’s killer abs, our talent, our blog, our followers, our art, our sex, our fantasies, our work, our homes, our partner, our vibrator, our new haircut (no, you look so cute tho, seriously).

But love isn’t any of those things (okay, maybe we’re on the fence about the vibrator but let’s try to focus, kids).

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How Deep Is Your Love? The Art & Struggle of Surrender

We don’t want to give it all up.

As sexy as it sounds to surrender ourselves, we’re terrified of what it would mean to actually do it completely.

As lovely as it rolls across the mind to say we will surrender, we don’t often (ever?) intend to give up the struggle and inhabit the peace of mind we say we want.

It’s just not that easy.

What if I invited you to consider that this poem . . .

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How to MAJORLY Build Your Self-Confidence by Doing This ONE Badass Thing

Right, so we’ll get to building your sexy ass confidence in just a second, good friend.

First tho, here’s a fun trick to try if you’d like to test your creative confidence; publish a blog post about erotica, get everybody all seduced and lathered up, and then come back a week later and publish another blog post.

About anything.

About anything else.

Post about something else – after riffing about touching and stroking and fingering – and expect anyone to give a shit about what could possibly come after all that goodness.

I hear you. I know. But never fear, my love. I’ve got you. I am not afraid.

I have something even hotter to talk about this week, if you can possibly fathom that (I realize a blogger with any sense at all would be concerned about deliberately stacking this kind of dangerous pyramid scheme of expectations but nobody’s here to play it safe, I sincerely hope).

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Erotica: Finding Pleasure in the Essential Art of Touch

Fair warning, lovers: This one will be very different from the others. (Are you reading this at the office, by the way? Because you might not want to be reading this at the office. But then again, maybe you really do.)

Consistency is divine but so is disruption. So is surprise.

This post is not about how to’s or fixing or changing anything. It’s about feeling.

Feeling. Everything.

Feeling, it seems to me, is a precious and increasingly scarce form of artistry. People are numbed out all over the damn place trying to avoid feelings of pain but also, in more cases than we seem to realize, trying to avoid feelings of good honest organic pleasure (because, you know, the guilt and the guilt and the guilt and everything – and then there’s the guilt).

Odd things, we.

Maybe it’s better (more accurate? more tragic?) to say that avoiding our feelings has become a twisted art form in itself.

Somehow, in these overcharged, overstimulating, hyper-sexed times, we end up numb and ashamed when all we really crave is to be touched and awakened.

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3 Ways to Start Doing the Work You REALLY Want To Do

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Allison Marie for glorybegin.com

A weird thing happens to otherwise normal people when we attempt to level with each other about work.

People seem to act like if they were to start doing the work they truly loved, other people will think they are colossally selfish / stupid / immature and begin throwing themselves out of seven story buildings or lighting themselves on fire in protest.

We act like if we want to be artists we’ll need to prove we’re “allowed” by only doing what we long to do as a “nice hobby” or in a damp cellar by dank (dank?) candlelight where no one has to see us in all our crazy.

We seem to think that if we were to work on something that we totally dig, this may simultaneously cause our families to implode, our lovers to walk out, our children to disown us, our very physical security to be threatened by some invisible bully.

We think we don’t deserve it. We think they can’t handle it. We think it has to be a big fucking deal and we’ll need to ceremonially trade in everything we’ve earned in our entire lives up to this point in exchange for the right to pursue our creative passions.

But you know what actually happens to us and to other people when we finally dare to start working on our dream?

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The Realest Way to Keep Sh*t Real In Art & Life (Really for Real)

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Allison Marie for glorybegin.com

Incredibly, there’s still a lot of noise on the interwebs about being “authentic” and “keeping shit real” in our lives, in our work, in our relationships, in our swim suits, in our Instagram galleries.

(By the way, whomever started #nofilter, I’m starting #damnrightitsfiltered. If I wanted everything to look like it does on any given pimple-faced Wednesday I’d still be wearing jelly bracelets stacked to my elbows and using those trashable wind-up cameras from the 90’s while getting way over excited that they take pictures underwater now! Stop it. Everything should look like a classic black and white Humphrey Bogart film.)

Of course, some of the noise about keeping shit real comes from yours truly, mind you, so the irony that I’m calling us out on it is not lost on me.  Smug-Allison-Marie is even a little proud of that noise because it’s important noise to be making (she believes).

But somewhere amidst the chaotic weirdness of $5 selfie-sticks and $zilliondollar celebrity, we seem to have confused “being real” with being loud, obnoxious, rude, disrespectful, ignorant, and in an obscene number of cases . . . NOT REAL.

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How to Stop Being Jealous & Rock Your Own Life

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Allison Marie for glorybegin.com

So two things right off the top: #1 I’m not talking about jealousy in this post (WTF?) and #2 I’m fully aware that exactly no one wants to talk about shit like this (hence the trickery, but let me explain).

Shit like what, you may well demand to know since I’ve just confessed to the old bait-and-switch title of a blog post which may or may not land me on the wrong side of the tracks with WordPress / Google / Nick Jonas.

It turns out that although we most often think of ourselves as struggling with jealousy (where did you even come from, Nick Jonas?) what we actually struggle with, technically, is envy.

“In this country, we use the words “jealousy” and “envy” as synonyms but they are not.
Envy is the feeling of wanting what someone else has. The linguistic root is from the Latin invidia which is connected to the modern word ‘invidious.’
Jealousy is the feeling of wanting to protect what is yours. The linguistic root is from the Latin zelos which is connected to the modern word ‘zealous’.”

But the thing is, no one Googles envy for the same reason no one Googles sloth. (If you do though? The “medium-sized mammal” comes first with adorable photos; the “deadly sin” comes in second. Go figure.)

Lazy sounds like a thing we should probably work on but also feels like fuzzy socks. Sloth sounds like one of both of us should be roaming ancient Jerusalem sacrificing our livestock when shit hits the proverbial fan.

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