#imbibe magazine

[violet-hearth]

Devotional Art and Art Magic!

Happy Friday!

Visual art is such an underutilised tool, especially by beginner and younger practitioners. I understand that we all start off excited by spell bags and witch bottles and potions, but as a queer person, so many of us express ourselves through our art and expression can be as big a part of spells as the ingredients (for me expression and intention go hand in hand).

Art has been used both in devotion and in blessings. Displaying art of house blessings was a means to bless the home permanently (Judaism), icons of saints were used as a form of veneration and in prayer (Catholic), and there are several articles and books that dive into art as prayer (mostly Christian).

Sigils + Vision Boards:

Sigils are a visual representation of intent and desire in spellwork and can be incorporated into art through large paintings, sewing patches onto your coat, buttons and badges, painted onto stones, vases, embroidery etc.

Like sigils, a collage can be used as a visual representation of your desire or intent - they can also be an art form of their own and be made as a form of devotional art. 

Fashion:

Fashion and style witchcraft are about coordinating your look into your goals and intentions. Whether this is through charmed jewellery, symbols, sigils, colour associations or flagging. Queer aesthetics is a huge thing for identifying ourselves and the community, and as a queer witch I love charming my carabiner, wearing queer jewellery, and playing with gender. 

The aesthetics of the DIY movement and the aesthetics of queer culture are almost interchangeable. The appeal comes from the look and the fuck-the-man attitude itself, but also from the connection of having handmade, community-focused things by your side. (Queering Your Craft) 

Masks:

Masks can be a great way of incorporating sympathetic and symbolic magic into a larger ritual. Masks can be used to represent archetypes of characters or energies.

In worship of Dionysus, the communicants’ attempt to impersonate the deity by donning goatskins and by imbibing wine and wear a disguise or white linen mask to enable the leaders of the ceremony to make the god manifest. (Britannica)

Masks have been sued in mystery plays, comedia dell’arte, opera, Noh, Dance of the Red Tiger Devil - for both sacred and entertainment productions.

Creating Queer Devotional Art

To protect/enchant the hearts and voices of activists - This spell is meant to protect our hearts and souls, but can be used to honour our queer cultural ancestors, friends, and adapted for honouring deities.

You need:

Art/collage/craft supplies - paint, markers, papers, canvas, glue, magazines, poetry, pens, embroidery, quilting squares etc.

An idea or image you want to create

A white candle

Inspiration:

Devotional art

Jewish Paper Cutting

NAMES project

Queer zines

Protest signs

Trans/Queer Protest Chants

To perform this spell:

Anoint, pray, bless, carve a sigil into etc. The candle and light it - candles often represent the soul so here we’ll let it burn until it naturally extinguishes if safe to do so (a mall candle may be better)

Start creating your image, add in aspects of queer resistance, joy, history, pain, the messages of your own activism. A symbols, symbolism, images of famous activists, sigils, poetry - whatever speaks to you.

If desired, pray, or bless or say an incantation as you finish the piece

Place this art somewhere visible in your house - this spell can also maybe used to make a good sign or banner at protests - optionally turn into a zine, carry around devotional art and art magic in a little notebook or specific sketchbook

This is a very low stakes type of protection. People have been making talismans and hanging up protective decor for centuries. From gargoyles to garlic wreaths to decorative home blessings. This is just a modern adaptation to this world-wide tradition, with a queer and activist focused twist xx

[nifolution]

Letters 6

Warnings: Heartbreak, Angst, Manipulation, lies, threats, arguments, mention of pregnancy/getting pregnant, allusion of smut

A/N: This is a revised copy of my oc fic. It is still written in 3rd person. Steve was rescued from the Valkyrie crash. He became a world hero and came back home with Peggy to start his life. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated. Reminder that chapter 5 & 6 have been reconfigured.

Chapter 5  Series Masterlist     Main Masterlist

Chapter 6

Peggy was not a simpleminded woman, she saw Steve sneak out in the dead of night. Phoning an associate, twelve hours later she got the answer to her husband’s whereabouts. The bastard had been playing house with his old flame. He left her bed to warm someone else’s, and according to the information in front of her, it had been going on for some time now.

She would not stand for this embarrassment, Steve needed to remember his place. He was no longer the pitiful thing he was before the serum. So sickly that if he were a pet, they would have drowned him. Captain America was the embodiment of perfection, and belonged to her. Clearly his mind had forgotten that and slipped into bad habits. She would put an end to it.

After verifying Steve’s location well outside the vicinity, Peggy arrived at his paramour’s residence. She refused to be made a fool of by some low class floozy. After successfully charming the landlord, she made her way up to her destination. Three knocks and she came face to face with the woman occupying her husband’s time.

Y/N didn’t know what she expected when she answered the door, but it wasn’t Mrs. Captain America. Nothing good could come out of Steve’s wife at her apartment. “Can I help you?” She ignored the dread that prickled up her spine.

“I see by the look on your face, that you know who I am.” Peggy smiled when the other woman nodded. “I would like to have a chat, woman to woman.”

She noticed how Peggy looked at her as if she was something she stepped in. Y/N’s anger simmered below the surface, she’d seize this opportunity to confront her uninvited guest. This spiteful, entitled, British lunatic doesn’t get to screw with her life and not expect her to fight back. “Please come in.”

Peggy sat down at the small table and asked for a cup of tea. While the other woman obliged, she looked around the tiny home with distaste, humming to herself, “Not very cohesive is it.”

Y/N returned to the table carrying the requested beverage, mentally preparing herself to have it out with this woman. As she set the tea tray down, her blood froze. Peggy was right where she left her, poised and proper, not a hair out of place, like she jumped out of a magazine… if not for the pistol casually sitting on the table.

The corner of Peggy’s mouth turned up at the clear fright in the other woman's eyes over the small firearm. “Milk and two sugars, please.”

Y/N surprised herself when her voice didn’t shake, “I do not have any milk.”

Her red lips pursed, “I suppose this will have to do then.” Peggy flashed a fake smile, taking her cup and placing it in front of her. She had no intention of imbibing whichever subpar tea was being served. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’m here to discuss my husband spending so much time with you, instead of where he belongs.”

Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off the weapon, sure she was about to breathe her last. “Steve has been a good friend to me. He’s been trying to help me out.”

“I’m sure he has. However, I must insist that whatever fun you two have been having come to an end. He should be at home with me, we are having a baby after all.” Peggy sighed, a dreamy look on her face as she held her flat stomach.

Her demeanor changes once again, looking Y/N up and down with contempt, “I admit, I've been working a bit much as of late, yet I do not see the appeal. You must be very easy for him to have turned to you.” She smoothed down an nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt, then turned her dark gaze back to the other woman. “He is mine. He will never be yours. I'm all he needs. I am his love, his best friend, his home, his safety, his WIFE. You are just a hole he uses to pass the time.”

Shocked by the language and accusation, Y/N stuttered, “No we ha- haven't. I w-wouldn’t…”

Peggy held up her hand, “I do not wish to hear your excuses. Imagine if a reporter caught wind of your inappropriate relationship. His reputation would be tarnished, and you, dearie, would be ruined… You will stop seeing my husband immediately lest the consequences be swift and severe.” She placed her perfectly polished fingers on the gun, angling it toward Y/N. “Do we have an understanding?”

Y/N could only nod, terrified of the unspoken threat. She’d die, and be forever shamed as Captain America’s mistress. As the woman that came between America's perfect couple. The homewrecker, the whore. If she managed to survive, she’d lose her job and her home. Her family would disown her. She’d have nothing after such a scandal. Living on the street or dead in a box.

“Marvelous.” Peggy stood, placing the pistol back in her purse. “Oh, and I wouldn't mention a word of this friendly conversation to Steve. Stress isn't good for the baby.” She took one last look at Y/N, shaking her head. “You really are a weak thing. I do not see the appeal at all.” She closed the apartment door behind her and waited. Smiling at the sound of Y/N sobbing, she left, satisfied her first objective was completed.

---------------

Humming to herself, Peggy slipped into her best lingerie and matching robe. Admiring her image in the mirror as she let her hair down and applied her favorite shade of red lipstick that she knew drove her husband wild. The perfect trap.

Like all men, she knew Steve would step out of line from time to time. It was their nature. Men needed constant guidance. Could not be relied on to make correct decisions on their own. It made it all the more important to put Steve back in his place. He had been more resistant than expected. She needed to use her ace in the hole; allowing Steve to impregnate her.

It would not derail her career. She dared them to try to push her out of her position. Peggy knew she could do both successfully. A few months of desk work through the pregnancy, then hire a nanny and everything would work itself out. What was important was getting her husband on board with her agency and remaking the world in the name of the greater good. He would learn to see things her way. A child would ensure his cooperation. Hearing Steve’s car pull up, Peggy poured two glasses of champagne and waited.

Steve walked into his house, head hung low. Far too much on his mind. It had been two days since he last spoke with Y/N. Her request for space was killing him. He left her apartment on friendly terms, but it still felt like he was losing her. He couldn't go through that again. Steve wanted to respect her boundaries, but he missed her too much. That hollow spot inside him ached, the one created when he thought she left him for another man. He needed her. It all felt wrong. This didn't feel like coming home. It felt like hiding.

"Welcome home, Captain."

He looked up to a sight that would have once felt like it jumped out of his fantasies. Peggy in a robe that covered very little. Her come hither eyes trained on him as each slow and sensual step brought her closer. He couldn’t help but stare, accepting the glass she handed him without question.

Peggy wrapped her arms around his neck, careful not to spill her drink. She gazed into his eyes, smiling seductively as she spoke, “I’ve missed you terribly.” The words were innocent, but the tone sounded like 'take me now.' Leaning in, Peggy placed a teasing kiss on her husband's lips. A taste of what was to come.

Steve was momentarily stunned. "I um…I- I need to tell you something." He gently removed her arms, escorting her to the couch to sit beside him. There were many things he wanted to say to her, but was finding it difficult to start. So he picked the first topic that came to mind. Told her how he wanted to retire, put down the shield. Captain America was done.

She chuckled with feigned amusement, "You are being ridiculous. You're nothing if you're not Captain America... These last weeks have made you cranky and irrational, my poor dear. Let me make it better." Slowly opening her robe to expose what was underneath, she watched his eyes slightly dilate. "I was wrong, Steve. I want to have a baby now. I love you and I know you love me. Waiting seems silly. Can you picture it, a little boy playing ball in the yard, a little girl with her dollies. Our perfect family. Do you see it, darling?"

His breath caught when Peggy pushed herself against him, bosoms barely contained by thin lace. The smell of her perfume and her soft skin hypnotizing. Her hands cupped his face, pulling him into an unwanted kiss. He pulled away, “I'm not in the mood, Peg.”

“I’ll make you feel so good,” Peggy began kissing up the side of Steve’s neck while her left hand rubbed him through his pants, “you’ll forget all your troubles.” Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered, “I'll even use my mouth like on our honeymoon.” Resting her head on his chest, Peggy grasped his manhood through the fabric smiling as he began to swell. “I know we’ve hit a little snag in our marriage, but that happens to every couple. Come on, Captain, your wife needs you.”

Swallowing hard, Steve stopped Peggy by holding her hand in his. He had to live with his choices. That was his ring on her finger. Did he still love Peggy? He wasn’t sure. Thinking too hard about it made his stomach churn. She was still his wife, but he could never trust her again. Everything out of her mouth seemed to be a lie. She tricked him, pursued him, used him. However, he basked in the attention, reciprocated her advances and forced himself to forget Y/N. Maybe he deserved this, a life under Peggy's thumb. He had to make this work.

Peggy used their entwined hands to pull her husband to their bedroom. She knew he couldn't resist her. He would always be a puppet and she knew just how to pull his strings.

---------------

Steve sat in his high back chair, sipping his drink, trying to quiet the voices in his head. The pleasure Peggy provided fixed nothing. In fact he felt worse. A touch once longed for, now made his skin crawl. This is not what he wanted. The love he once held for Peggy was gone, forever tainted by her actions, but he was stuck. So even though he couldn't get drunk, he let the burn of the alcohol distract him. Lamenting that no matter how much he consumed, he would never be granted numbness from these feelings. His Ma would be ashamed.

Downing the last of his glass, he poured himself another. Wishing his best friend was still around for him to confide in. Steve laughed, knowing Bucky would swipe the whiskey from his hand, tell him to stop being a punk and do something, then finish the drink himself. Maybe give him a swift kick in the ass to get him moving faster. And he’d be right. Steve couldn't undo the past, but he could change things starting now.

In the bedroom sat Peggy, scowling. “How dare he?” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, positively fuming. She degraded herself playing the whore for him and he couldn't finish. His mind clearly elsewhere.

She didn’t like this at all, she was losing control over him. Peggy had enough of the back and forth, he needed to move out of New York with her and join SHIELD, end of story. If that homewrecking hussy interfered she would squash her like the measly insect she was. Her husband would be none the wiser, accidents could be arranged. They had no idea what she was capable of.

Steve flew into the bedroom with his overnight bag in hand. Paying no mind to the woman on the bed, he began stuffing clothing and personal items into it. He had to leave and didn't want Peggy clouding his judgment. She put enough ideas in his head as it was. He wasn't going to let her control him anymore.

Peggy pushed up her breasts, prepared to continue. “Come back to bed, love.” It sounded more like a demand than a request. “We must try again. Proper insemination is required for procreation.”

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Steve turned to his preening wife. He saw her now, could peer through her illusion to the darkness and rot within. Disgusted with himself, he never wanted to touch her again. “I need to go.”

She responded with a sardonic laugh. Here she was giving him everything he wanted and that insolent man had the nerve to deny her. “I’m sorry, no. You are not going anywhere. I forbid it.”

Defying her orders, Steve walked out of their room and into the bathroom. Peggy followed at his heels. She was determined, he'd give her that. Determined and heartless. He continued to ignore her.

“You will do as I say!” Losing all composure, she shoved him with all her might, but to no avail. He continued putting items into his bag. She pushed hard at his cheek to force him to face her. “I am Captain America's wife. What good are you to me without the moniker? Without that you are worthless.” Each word punctuated by her finger stabbing into his chest.

“I have NEVER been worthless.” Finished, Steve closed the bag and headed to the front door.

Peggy ran after him. “Where do you think you are going, you ungrateful bastard!? To that waitress’ home? Your lover that cowers at the sight of a tiny firearm.”

That got a reaction. He froze in his tracks. Lifting her chin, her lips twisted into a sinister smirk, “Didn’t think I knew? You were not exactly discreet.”

Steve should have known she was still spying on him. Another one of her lies. Through clenched teeth he growled, "What did you do?”

“Only what I had to.” Peggy half shrugged, “No harm has come to her.” The silent ‘yet’ hung in the air. She attempted to take the bag out of his hand, but his grip only tightened.

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Steve, my sweet husband, we have a beautiful life together, don't spoil it. Don't disrespect everything we've built together. We were made for each other. We can get past this little hiccup.”

Placing a tentative hand on his arm, Peggy spoke with a soft voice, “I can understand your confusion, darling, and I forgive you. You run into an ex-lover and old feelings resurface, but that is all they are. Old. Dead. Feelings. Only memories. You would do well to pay them no mind.”

“We are only apart because of you.”

Peggy rubbed her brow, “Always so melodramatic. You are apart because you’re not a match. WE ARE. I believed you were bright enough to figure that out. That's why you married me. We're perfect together… Remember our vows, Steve. Remember your duties to me and your country. You were made for big things. Much too great for some lowly waitress with dirt under her fingernails. She could never run in our social circles…”

Steve interrupted, taking a step back, “Your circles, your friends.” 

Stomping her foot, she screamed, “I won't be a party to your childish fantasies... You need to calm down and forget this squabble. Bury the past and appreciate what we have now.” Peggy held out her hand for him to take, “Come back to bed.”

He stared at the appendage as if it was a snake waiting to strike. 

“I will not tolerate this behavior any longer. I allowed it before, knowing you needed to let off steam, but no longer. This ends now. Know your place.”

“I do.” Steve walked out the front door, and out of her life for good.

Chapter 7 (coming soon)

[justforbooks]

Morgan Spurlock

American film-maker best known for his acclaimed 2004 documentary Super Size Me

Few film-makers can say that their work has made a change to the real world, but Morgan Spurlock had a stronger claim than most. His 2004 documentary Super Size Me, an exposé of how the fast food industry was fuelling America’s obesity epidemic, appeared to have direct repercussions for the world’s largest fast food chain, McDonald’s.

Shortly before the film came out in May that year, the company introduced its Go Active! menu, which included salad items; six weeks after its release, the company abolished its supersize portions entirely.

McDonald’s claimed these menu changes were a coincidence. But the director, who has died aged 53 of complications from cancer, struck a timely blow at the business when awareness about fast food’s corrosive role in public health was on the rise.

Super Size Me’s high-concept premise – eating three McDonald’s meals for 30 days straight – was key to conveying Spurlock’s message. With the director gaining 11kg, plumping out his body fat from 11% to 18% and inflicting heart palpitations, impotence and depression on himself, his gonzo approach put him at the forefront of the early noughties boom in cinematic documentaries instigated by Michael Moore. “There’s real power in a documentary,”Spurlock later said.

Doubts later emerged about Spurlock’s experiment in bodily attrition, after he refused to release his diet logs from the period; and then when it later emerged that he was an alcoholic who had also imbibed during the shoot.

An inveterate attention-seeker and twinkly-eyed showman, he was not going to let these details affect either the purity of Super Size Me’s marketing line, or his emerging career as a documentary star; a budding Moore for the Jackass generation. He would consistently target totems of modern capitalism and consumerism, though none of his subsequent works had the same kind of influence as his 2004 lightning-bottler.

Spurlock was born in Parkersburg, West Virginia, and grew up in Beckley in the Methodist household of his auto-repair shop-owning father Ben and mother Phyllis, an English teacher and high-school counsellor. Though his parents later divorced, he credited his mother in particular with instilling in him a sense of activism: ���She was one of those people who speak up when she didn’t agree with things. She was a collector of people too: if you had the ability to help people, you should,” he told the International Documentary Association.

A childhood fan of British humour such as Fawlty Towers and Monty Python, he was already exercising his entertainer’s streak doing “funny walks” around the house aged six or seven.

Rejected five times by University of Southern California’s film school, he graduated from the New York University Tisch School of the Arts in 1993. “I wanted to be Spielberg. I wanted to write and direct scripted movies,” Spurlock told Interview magazine. He originally showed promise in this direction, winning an award for his stage play The Phoenix at the New York international fringe festival in 1999.

After stints as a personal assistant on Woody Allen’s Bullets Over Broadway and Luc Besson’s Leon (both 1994), Spurlock first stepped in front of camera as a promotional spokesman for Sony Electronics. But his breakthrough came though hitching himself to the reality TV bandwagon with the self-created internet webcast, and, later (in 2002), MTV show, I Bet You Will. As one of the presenting team, Spurlock goaded members of the public into humiliating themselves for money – with stunts such as being “wedgied” or eating a worm burrito.

Super Size Me grossed $22m on a $65,000 budget, making it one of the most profitable documentaries of all time. Spurlock believed his body never fully recovered – though he lost the weight thanks to a special diet concocted by his then girlfriend, the vegan chef Alex Jamieson (the pair married and had a son, Laken, in 2006, before divorcing in 2011; Spurlock had been previously married to Priscilla Somer between 1996 and 2003).

He also later expressed doubts about the longer-term impact of Super Size Me on fast food corporations, later reflecting: “People say to me, ‘So has the food gotten healthier?’ And I say, ‘Well, the marketing sure has.’”

Spurlock could not skewer the zeitgeist again to create a second “doc-buster”, despite tilting at big-hitter topics such as terrorism (in 2008’s Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden?) and product-placement and advertising (POM Wonderful Presents: the Greatest Movie Ever Sold in 2011). With his trademark handlebar moustache, he settled into a reliably affable front-of-camera presence nosing around socio-cultural issues and foibles – sometimes fatuously.

In total, he directed and produced nearly 70 films and series, including a One Direction hagiography in 2013 and a Super Size Me sequel in 2017. But he retained keen business sense and marketing nous throughout this prolific output. “He taught us that we have to be chief executive artists,” his fellow documentary-maker Ondi Timoner told Variety.

Towards the end of Spurlock’s life, his career was on hold after he confessed in a 2017 blogpost to sexually abusive behaviour, including an allegation of rape while at college and paying off a production assistant he had harassed. “I have been unfaithful to every wife and girlfriend I have ever had,” he also wrote, explaining he had been sexually abused in his youth. He divulged all this possibly pre-emptively in anticipation of future accusations in the up swell of the #MeToo movement.

Making himself the focus of the story was true to his modus operandi, and his professed desire for self-improvement could indeed have made a fascinating documentary.

But the mea culpa proved an effective self-cancellation, with him resigning from the production company, Warrior Poets, he had founded in 2004 and being sued by Turner Entertainment Networks for an aborted project.

He divorced his third wife, the producer Sara Bernstein – with whom he had a second son – in 2024. His final documentary credit was for a mockumentary creating a fake history around the classic 1992 Simpsons episode Homer at the Bat.

Spurlock is survived by his children, Laken and Kallen, by his parents and his brothers, Craig and Barry.

🔔 Morgan Spurlock, director and producer, born 7 November 1970; died 23 May 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[niffala]

Letters (Pt. 6)

Warnings: Heartbreak, Angst, Manipulation, lies, threats, arguments, mention of pregnancy/getting pregnant, allusion of smut

A/N: Reader insert version found here. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated. Reminder that chapter 5 & 6 have been reconfigured.

Chapter 5 Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

Chapter 6

Peggy was not a simpleminded woman, she saw Steve sneak out in the dead of night. Phoning an associate, twelve hours later she got the answer to her husband’s whereabouts. The bastard had been playing house with his old flame. He left her bed to warm someone else’s, and according to the information in front of her, it had been going on for some time now.

She would not stand for this embarrassment, Steve needed to remember his place. He was no longer the pitiful thing he was before the serum. So sickly that if he were a pet, they would have drowned him. Captain America was the embodiment of perfection, and belonged to her. Clearly his mind had forgotten that and slipped into bad habits. She would put an end to it.

After verifying Steve’s location well outside the vicinity, Peggy arrived at his paramour’s residence. She refused to be made a fool of by some low class floozy. After successfully charming the landlord, she made her way up to her destination. Three knocks and she came face to face with the woman occupying her husband’s time.

Anne didn’t know what she expected when she answered the door, but it wasn’t Mrs. Captain America. Nothing good could come out of Steve’s wife at her apartment. “Can I help you?” She ignored the dread that prickled up her spine.

“I see by the look on your face, that you know who I am.” Peggy smiled when the other woman nodded. “I would like to have a chat, woman to woman.”

She noticed how Peggy looked at her as if she was something she stepped in. Anne’s anger simmered below the surface, she’d seize this opportunity to confront her uninvited guest. This spiteful, entitled, British lunatic doesn’t get to screw with her life and not expect her to fight back. “Please come in.”

Peggy sat down at the small table and asked for a cup of tea. While the other woman obliged, she looked around the tiny home with distaste, humming to herself, “Not very cohesive is it.”

Anne returned to the table carrying the requested beverage, mentally preparing herself to have it out with this woman. As she set the tea tray down, her blood froze. Peggy was right where she left her, poised and proper, not a hair out of place, like she jumped out of a magazine… if not for the pistol casually sitting on the table.

The corner of Peggy’s mouth turned up at the clear fright in the other woman's eyes over the small firearm. “Milk and two sugars, please.”

Anne surprised herself when her voice didn’t shake, “I do not have any milk.”

Her red lips pursed, “I suppose this will have to do then.” Peggy flashed a fake smile, taking her cup and placing it in front of her. She had no intention of imbibing whichever subpar tea was being served. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’m here to discuss my husband spending so much time with you, instead of where he belongs.”

Anne couldn’t take her eyes off the weapon, sure she was about to breathe her last. “Steve has been a good friend to me. He’s been trying to help me out.”

“I’m sure he has. However, I must insist that whatever fun you two have been having come to an end. He should be at home with me, we are having a baby after all.” Peggy sighed, a dreamy look on her face as she held her flat stomach.

Her demeanor changes once again, looking Anne up and down with contempt, “I admit, I've been working a bit much as of late, yet I do not see the appeal. You must be very easy for him to have turned to you.” She smoothed down an nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt, then turned her dark gaze back to the other woman. “He is mine. He will never be yours. I'm all he needs. I am his love, his best friend, his home, his safety, his WIFE. You are just a hole he uses to pass the time.”

Shocked by the language and accusation, Anne stuttered, “No we ha- haven't. I w-wouldn’t…”

Peggy held up her hand, “I do not wish to hear your excuses. Imagine if a reporter caught wind of your inappropriate relationship. His reputation would be tarnished, and you, dearie, would be ruined… You will stop seeing my husband immediately lest the consequences be swift and severe.” She placed her perfectly polished fingers on the gun, angling it toward Anne. “Do we have an understanding?”

Anne could only nod, terrified of the unspoken threat. She’d die, and be forever shamed as Captain America’s mistress. As the woman that came between America's perfect couple. The homewrecker, the whore. If she managed to survive, she’d lose her job and her home. Her family would disown her. She’d have nothing after such a scandal. Living on the street or dead in a box.

“Marvelous.” Peggy stood, placing the pistol back in her purse. “Oh, and I wouldn't mention a word of this friendly conversation to Steve. Stress isn't good for the baby.” She took one last look at Anne, shaking her head. “You really are a weak thing. I do not see the appeal at all.” She closed the apartment door behind her and waited. Smiling at the sound of Anne sobbing, she left, satisfied her first objective was completed.

---------------

Humming to herself, Peggy slipped into her best lingerie and matching robe. Admiring her image in the mirror as she let her hair down and applied her favorite shade of red lipstick that she knew drove her husband wild. The perfect trap.

Like all men, she knew Steve would step out of line from time to time. It was their nature. Men needed constant guidance. Could not be relied on to make correct decisions on their own. It made it all the more important to put Steve back in his place. He had been more resistant than expected. She needed to use her ace in the hole; allowing Steve to impregnate her.

It would not derail her career. She dared them to try to push her out of her position. Peggy knew she could do both successfully. A few months of desk work through the pregnancy, then hire a nanny and everything would work itself out. What was important was getting her husband on board with her agency and remaking the world in the name of the greater good. He would learn to see things her way. A child would ensure his cooperation. Hearing Steve’s car pull up, Peggy poured two glasses of champagne and waited.

Steve walked into his house, head hung low. Far too much on his mind. It had been two days since he last spoke with Anne. Her request for space was killing him. He left her apartment on friendly terms, but it still felt like he was losing her. He couldn't go through that again. Steve wanted to respect her boundaries, but he missed her too much. That hollow spot inside him ached, the one created when he thought she left him for another man. He needed her. It all felt wrong. This didn't feel like coming home. It felt like hiding.

"Welcome home, Captain."

He looked up to a sight that would have once felt like it jumped out of his fantasies. Peggy in a robe that covered very little. Her come hither eyes trained on him as each slow and sensual step brought her closer. He couldn’t help but stare, accepting the glass she handed him without question.

Peggy wrapped her arms around his neck, careful not to spill her drink. She gazed into his eyes, smiling seductively as she spoke, “I’ve missed you terribly.” The words were innocent, but the tone sounded like 'take me now.' Leaning in, Peggy placed a teasing kiss on her husband's lips. A taste of what was to come.

Steve was momentarily stunned. "I um…I- I need to tell you something." He gently removed her arms, escorting her to the couch to sit beside him. There were many things he wanted to say to her, but was finding it difficult to start. So he picked the first topic that came to mind. Told her how he wanted to retire, put down the shield. Captain America was done.

She chuckled with feigned amusement, "You are being ridiculous. You're nothing if you're not Captain America... These last weeks have made you cranky and irrational, my poor dear. Let me make it better." Slowly opening her robe to expose what was underneath, she watched his eyes slightly dilate. "I was wrong, Steve. I want to have a baby now. I love you and I know you love me. Waiting seems silly. Can you picture it, a little boy playing ball in the yard, a little girl with her dollies. Our perfect family. Do you see it, darling?"

His breath caught when Peggy pushed herself against him, bosoms barely contained by thin lace. The smell of her perfume and her soft skin hypnotizing. Her hands cupped his face, pulling him into an unwanted kiss. He pulled away, “I'm not in the mood, Peg.”

“I’ll make you feel so good,” Peggy began kissing up the side of Steve’s neck while her left hand rubbed him through his pants, “you’ll forget all your troubles.” Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered, “I'll even use my mouth like on our honeymoon.” Resting her head on his chest, Peggy grasped his manhood through the fabric smiling as he began to swell. “I know we’ve hit a little snag in our marriage, but that happens to every couple. Come on, Captain, your wife needs you.”

Swallowing hard, Steve stopped Peggy by holding her hand in his. He had to live with his choices. That was his ring on her finger. Did he still love Peggy? He wasn’t sure. Thinking too hard about it made his stomach churn. She was still his wife, but he could never trust her again. Everything out of her mouth seemed to be a lie. She tricked him, pursued him, used him. However, he basked in the attention, reciprocated her advances and forced himself to forget Anne. Maybe he deserved this, a life under Peggy's thumb. He had to make this work.

Peggy used their entwined hands to pull her husband to their bedroom. She knew he couldn't resist her. He would always be a puppet and she knew just how to pull his strings.

---------------

Steve sat in his high back chair, sipping his drink, trying to quiet the voices in his head. The pleasure Peggy provided fixed nothing. In fact he felt worse. A touch once longed for, now made his skin crawl. This is not what he wanted. The love he once held for Peggy was gone, forever tainted by her actions, but he was stuck. So even though he couldn't get drunk, he let the burn of the alcohol distract him. Lamenting that no matter how much he consumed, he would never be granted numbness from these feelings. His Ma would be ashamed.

Downing the last of his glass, he poured himself another. Wishing his best friend was still around for him to confide in. Steve laughed, knowing Bucky would swipe the whiskey from his hand, tell him to stop being a punk and do something, then finish the drink himself. Maybe give him a swift kick in the ass to get him moving faster. And he’d be right. Steve couldn't undo the past, but he could change things starting now.

In the bedroom sat Peggy, scowling. “How dare he?” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, positively fuming. She degraded herself playing the whore for him and he couldn't finish. His mind clearly elsewhere.

She didn’t like this at all, she was losing control over him. Peggy had enough of the back and forth, he needed to move out of New York with her and join SHIELD, end of story. If that homewrecking hussy interfered she would squash her like the measly insect she was. Her husband would be none the wiser, accidents could be arranged. They had no idea what she was capable of.

Steve flew into the bedroom with his overnight bag in hand. Paying no mind to the woman on the bed, he began stuffing clothing and personal items into it. He had to leave and didn't want Peggy clouding his judgment. She put enough ideas in his head as it was. He wasn't going to let her control him anymore.

Peggy pushed up her breasts, prepared to continue. “Come back to bed, love.” It sounded more like a demand than a request. “We must try again. Proper insemination is required for procreation.”

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Steve turned to his preening wife. He saw her now, could peer through her illusion to the darkness and rot within. Disgusted with himself, he never wanted to touch her again. “I need to go.”

She responded with a sardonic laugh. Here she was giving him everything he wanted and that insolent man had the nerve to deny her. “I’m sorry, no. You are not going anywhere. I forbid it.”

Defying her orders, Steve walked out of their room and into the bathroom. Peggy followed at his heels. She was determined, he'd give her that. Determined and heartless. He continued to ignore her.

“You will do as I say!” Losing all composure, she shoved him with all her might, but to no avail. He continued putting items into his bag. She pushed hard at his cheek to force him to face her. “I am Captain America's wife. What good are you to me without the moniker? Without that you are worthless.” Each word punctuated by her finger stabbing into his chest.

“I have NEVER been worthless.” Finished, Steve closed the bag and headed to the front door.

Peggy ran after him. “Where do you think you are going, you ungrateful bastard!? To that waitress’ home? Your lover that cowers at the sight of a tiny firearm.”

That got a reaction. He froze in his tracks. Lifting her chin, her lips twisted into a sinister smirk, “Didn’t think I knew? You were not exactly discreet.”

Steve should have known she was still spying on him. Another one of her lies. Through clenched teeth he growled, "What did you do?”

“Only what I had to.” Peggy half shrugged, “No harm has come to her.” The silent ‘yet’ hung in the air. She attempted to take the bag out of his hand, but his grip only tightened.

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Steve, my sweet husband, we have a beautiful life together, don't spoil it. Don't disrespect everything we've built together. We were made for each other. We can get past this little hiccup.”

Placing a tentative hand on his arm, Peggy spoke with a soft voice, “I can understand your confusion, darling, and I forgive you. You run into an ex-lover and old feelings resurface, but that is all they are. Old. Dead. Feelings. Only memories. You would do well to pay them no mind.”

“We are only apart because of you.”

Peggy rubbed her brow, “Always so melodramatic. You are apart because you’re not a match. WE ARE. I believed you were bright enough to figure that out. That's why you married me. We're perfect together… Remember our vows, Steve. Remember your duties to me and your country. You were made for big things. Much too great for some lowly waitress with dirt under her fingernails. She could never run in our social circles…”

Steve interrupted, taking a step back, “Your circles, your friends.” 

Stomping her foot, she screamed, “I won't be a party to your childish fantasies... You need to calm down and forget this squabble. Bury the past and appreciate what we have now.” Peggy held out her hand for him to take, “Come back to bed.”

He stared at the appendage as if it was a snake waiting to strike. 

“I will not tolerate this behavior any longer. I allowed it before, knowing you needed to let off steam, but no longer. This ends now. Know your place.”

“I do.” Steve walked out the front door, and out of her life for good.

Chapter 7 (coming soon)

[augment-techs]

Six Word Starter Prompts (part 2)

Ran away with circus; never returned

Buxom songstress loves love and chocolate

Blades cuts, blood runs, scars remain

Did I miss a deadline again?

Walking the green mile: Finally free

Dreamy visions during extended daytime hours

Love drama, just not my own

I wouldn't change it a bit

Saw the world; now where's home?

Nose broken, beauty queen changes profession

Blinked! Winked! I am halfway through!

Arms: Full. Life: Not so much

Many risky mistakes, very few regrets

Six kids; life is stranger than fiction!

He left me for good eventually

would you like fries with that?

Legs spread, I withheld my intelligence

Traversing Earth together, chasing elusive answers

hockey is not just for boys

never liked the taste of beets

underachieving pleasure punk seeks constant gratification

risked it all; never quite enough

I write because I can't sleep

sperm too potent, now have triplets

Never fear. Truffle season is near.

started small, grew, PEAKED, shrunk, vanished

Mom blames musical theater. I disagree.

and I never did sober up

world backpacking decade ends with minivan

asked and answered, asshole, next question

Really, doing fine, thanks for asking

Oh shit! No way? Yeah dude.

Mistook streetlight for the moon. Climbed.

Boyfriend in bed, still a lesbian?

wanted to live forever, died trying

happy child, wild teenager, adult anarchist

to make a long story short...

My second grade teacher was right.

someone had to pay the bills

Didn't fit in then; still don't.

I love my lady...and bacon.

Revenge is living well, without you.

Outcast. Picked last. Surprised them all.

Became my mother. Please shoot me.

If there's more, I want it.

it's like forever, only much shorter

Cancer for sure. Still no cure.

born lucky, striving to die worthy

tequila made their clothes fall off

I told you I was crazy.

Topless dancer. Circus clown. Spy. Writer.

I play dress-up for a living.

Where the hell are my keys?

They always wore socks to bed.

Well, I thought it was funny.

I died at an early age.

I couldn't possibly fuck him again.

Same mistakes. Over and over again.

Me: fully reformed and halfway happy!

the day just kept getting better

born in city that doesn't exist

shot my penis in photo booth

after which he was never sane

almost nothing was under my control

let me in, you narrative whore

cheese is the essence of life

I waste time looking for love.

straight jacket on the gentle cycle

I secretly read wedding magazines.

my ancestors were accented cow herders

Gin joints. Love affairs. No relation.

slightly flabby, slightly fabulous, trying hard

Thank fuck the suicide attempt failed!

Secretly, I dream of my ex-boyfriend.

unfortunately, there was no other way

My wife made me do it.

Like an angel. The fallen kind.

drew on walls, creative for life

When all else fails, start running.

still waiting for you to ask

My penultimate act is to imbibe.

ordering soup for two, for one

Sometimes at night I lay lonely.

I didn't walk off the roof.

will draw for food and coffee

I fell out of the nest.

I don't nibble. I bite. Hard.

He knew the bruises would fade.

we were married in the snow

lonely, frothy kisses, then only spite

we were each other's favorite person

learned to live with great loss

I'm not afraid of anything anymore.

most successful accomplishments based on spite

He wore dresses. This caused messes.

I will never be quite finished.

I tried. It was not enough.

There will be no beautiful corpse.

Found a demon to love forever.

These words are yours to keep.

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

TALL CANS & SMOKES ALL AROUND... "TREADING THE LINE BEYOND REALITY AND ARTIFICE."

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on my favorite of all Alex's pieces -- Top image: "The Big Valley: Susie and Friends," by Alex Prager, c. 2008 © Alex Prager Studio and Lehmann Maupin, New York and Hong Kong.

CAUSING A SCENE: "Growing up under the pristine skies of Hollywood Boulevard, the film industry’s greatest exporter in melodrama and fantasy, the line between reality and artifice was always something of a blur for renowned photographer Alex Prager.

Therefore it seems only natural that she would imbibe many of the same aesthetic codes through her work, but whereas Hollywood sells dreams, Prager interrogates them: using photography and film to examine the interplay between fact and fiction, light and dark, perfection and chaos. These are just some of the inherent tensions that lie at the centre of her ten year oeuvre and which now, on the eve of her first mid-career retrospective, she is breaking down and shuffling into order."

-- HERO-MAGAZINE, "Treading the line between reality and artifice with renowned photographer Alex Prager," by Finn Blythe, published June 18, 2018

Source: https://hero-magazine.com/article/124604/treading-the-line-between-reality-and-artifice-with-renowned-photographer-alex-prager.

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

Negroni Week!

From the 18th to the 24th of September 2023, Campari, Italy’s iconic red apéritif, and Imbibe Magazine will come together for Negroni Week once again to support Slow Food’s mission to foster a more equitable and sustainable world of food and beverage through a series of local events at bars, restaurants and retailers around the world.

For the second year running, the charity Slow Food, an organization connecting the pleasure of food with a commitment to community and the environment, has partnered with several London bars to take part in Negroni Week.

Cheers!

Negroni Circus! 🎪🎡🎠

For several years now, “Slow Food “ has been liaising with European institutions to promote our common vision, influence food policies in the European Union, and seek to change the current food and farming systems. Slow Food has support from the European Union.

#AviationAmerica #gin #Negroniseason #drink #SlowFood #RyanReynolds #charity #Campari #ImbibeMagazine #EU

[dickens-daily]

CHAPTER V—SEVEN DIALS

We have always been of opinion that if Tom King and the Frenchman had not immortalised Seven Dials, Seven Dials would have immortalised itself. Seven Dials! the region of song and poetry—first effusions, and last dying speeches: hallowed by the names of Catnach and of Pitts—names that will entwine themselves with costermongers, and barrel-organs, when penny magazines shall have superseded penny yards of song, and capital punishment be unknown!

Look at the construction of the place. The Gordian knot was all very well in its way: so was the maze of Hampton Court: so is the maze at the Beulah Spa: so were the ties of stiff white neckcloths, when the difficulty of getting one on, was only to be equalled by the apparent impossibility of ever getting it off again. But what involutions can compare with those of Seven Dials? Where is there such another maze of streets, courts, lanes, and alleys? Where such a pure mixture of Englishmen and Irishmen, as in this complicated part of London? We boldly aver that we doubt the veracity of the legend to which we have adverted. We can suppose a man rash enough to inquire at random—at a house with lodgers too—for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the certainty before his eyes, of finding at least two or three Thompsons in any house of moderate dimensions; but a Frenchman—a Frenchman in Seven Dials! Pooh! He was an Irishman. Tom King’s education had been neglected in his infancy, and as he couldn’t understand half the man said, he took it for granted he was talking French.

The stranger who finds himself in ‘The Dials’ for the first time, and stands Belzoni-like, at the entrance of seven obscure passages, uncertain which to take, will see enough around him to keep his curiosity and attention awake for no inconsiderable time. From the irregular square into which he has plunged, the streets and courts dart in all directions, until they are lost in the unwholesome vapour which hangs over the house-tops, and renders the dirty perspective uncertain and confined; and lounging at every corner, as if they came there to take a few gasps of such fresh air as has found its way so far, but is too much exhausted already, to be enabled to force itself into the narrow alleys around, are groups of people, whose appearance and dwellings would fill any mind but a regular Londoner’s with astonishment.

On one side, a little crowd has collected round a couple of ladies, who having imbibed the contents of various ‘three-outs’ of gin and bitters in the course of the morning, have at length differed on some point of domestic arrangement, and are on the eve of settling the quarrel satisfactorily, by an appeal to blows, greatly to the interest of other ladies who live in the same house, and tenements adjoining, and who are all partisans on one side or other.

‘Vy don’t you pitch into her, Sarah?’ exclaims one half-dressed matron, by way of encouragement. ‘Vy don’t you? if my ’usband had treated her with a drain last night, unbeknown to me, I’d tear her precious eyes out—a wixen!’

‘What’s the matter, ma’am?’ inquires another old woman, who has just bustled up to the spot.

‘Matter!’ replies the first speaker, talking at the obnoxious combatant, ‘matter! Here’s poor dear Mrs. Sulliwin, as has five blessed children of her own, can’t go out a charing for one arternoon, but what hussies must be a comin’, and ’ticing avay her oun’ ’usband, as she’s been married to twelve year come next Easter Monday, for I see the certificate ven I vas a drinkin’ a cup o’ tea vith her, only the werry last blessed Ven’sday as ever was sent. I ’appen’d to say promiscuously, “Mrs. Sulliwin,” says I—’

‘What do you mean by hussies?’ interrupts a champion of the other party, who has evinced a strong inclination throughout to get up a branch fight on her own account (‘Hooroar,’ ejaculates a pot-boy in parenthesis, ‘put the kye-bosk on her, Mary!’), ‘What do you mean by hussies?’ reiterates the champion.

‘Niver mind,’ replies the opposition expressively, ‘niver mind; you go home, and, ven you’re quite sober, mend your stockings.’

This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady’s habits of intemperance, but also to the state of her wardrobe, rouses her utmost ire, and she accordingly complies with the urgent request of the bystanders to ‘pitch in,’ with considerable alacrity. The scuffle became general, and terminates, in minor play-bill phraseology, with ‘arrival of the policemen, interior of the station-house, and impressive dénouement.’

In addition to the numerous groups who are idling about the gin-shops and squabbling in the centre of the road, every post in the open space has its occupant, who leans against it for hours, with listless perseverance. It is odd enough that one class of men in London appear to have no enjoyment beyond leaning against posts. We never saw a regular bricklayer’s labourer take any other recreation, fighting excepted. Pass through St. Giles’s in the evening of a week-day, there they are in their fustian dresses, spotted with brick-dust and whitewash, leaning against posts. Walk through Seven Dials on Sunday morning: there they are again, drab or light corduroy trousers, Blucher boots, blue coats, and great yellow waistcoats, leaning against posts. The idea of a man dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against a post all day!

The peculiar character of these streets, and the close resemblance each one bears to its neighbour, by no means tends to decrease the bewilderment in which the unexperienced wayfarer through ‘the Dials’ finds himself involved. He traverses streets of dirty, straggling houses, with now and then an unexpected court composed of buildings as ill-proportioned and deformed as the half-naked children that wallow in the kennels. Here and there, a little dark chandler’s shop, with a cracked bell hung up behind the door to announce the entrance of a customer, or betray the presence of some young gentleman in whom a passion for shop tills has developed itself at an early age: others, as if for support, against some handsome lofty building, which usurps the place of a low dingy public-house; long rows of broken and patched windows expose plants that may have flourished when ‘the Dials’ were built, in vessels as dirty as ‘the Dials’ themselves; and shops for the purchase of rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen-stuff, vie in cleanliness with the bird-fanciers and rabbit-dealers, which one might fancy so many arks, but for the irresistible conviction that no bird in its proper senses, who was permitted to leave one of them, would ever come back again. Brokers’ shops, which would seem to have been established by humane individuals, as refuges for destitute bugs, interspersed with announcements of day-schools, penny theatres, petition-writers, mangles, and music for balls or routs, complete the ‘still life’ of the subject; and dirty men, filthy women, squalid children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledores, reeking pipes, bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated cats, depressed dogs, and anatomical fowls, are its cheerful accompaniments.

If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance at their inhabitants, present but few attractions, a closer acquaintance with either is little calculated to alter one’s first impression. Every room has its separate tenant, and every tenant is, by the same mysterious dispensation which causes a country curate to ‘increase and multiply’ most marvellously, generally the head of a numerous family.

The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked ‘jemmy’ line, or the fire-wood and hearth-stone line, or any other line which requires a floating capital of eighteen-pence or thereabouts: and he and his family live in the shop, and the small back parlour behind it. Then there is an Irish labourer and his family in the back kitchen, and a jobbing man—carpet-beater and so forth—with his family in the front one. In the front one-pair, there’s another man with another wife and family, and in the back one-pair, there’s ‘a young ’oman as takes in tambour-work, and dresses quite genteel,’ who talks a good deal about ‘my friend,’ and can’t ‘a-bear anything low.’ The second floor front, and the rest of the lodgers, are just a second edition of the people below, except a shabby-genteel man in the back attic, who has his half-pint of coffee every morning from the coffee-shop next door but one, which boasts a little front den called a coffee-room, with a fireplace, over which is an inscription, politely requesting that, ‘to prevent mistakes,’ customers will ‘please to pay on delivery.’ The shabby-genteel man is an object of some mystery, but as he leads a life of seclusion, and never was known to buy anything beyond an occasional pen, except half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and ha’porths of ink, his fellow-lodgers very naturally suppose him to be an author; and rumours are current in the Dials, that he writes poems for Mr. Warren.

Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot summer’s evening, and saw the different women of the house gossiping on the steps, would be apt to think that all was harmony among them, and that a more primitive set of people than the native Diallers could not be imagined. Alas! the man in the shop ill-treats his family; the carpet-beater extends his professional pursuits to his wife; the one-pair front has an undying feud with the two-pair front, in consequence of the two-pair front persisting in dancing over his (the one-pair front’s) head, when he and his family have retired for the night; the two-pair back will interfere with the front kitchen’s children; the Irishman comes home drunk every other night, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back screams at everything. Animosities spring up between floor and floor; the very cellar asserts his equality. Mrs. A. ‘smacks’ Mrs. B.’s child for ‘making faces.’ Mrs. B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs. A.’s child for ‘calling names.’ The husbands are embroiled—the quarrel becomes general—an assault is the consequence, and a police-officer the result.

_____

Title | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter |

[nwbeerguide]

Talking Cedar announces expanded American Single Malt Whiskey program under Master Distiller Matt Hofmann.

https://bit.ly/4h9ZATv image sourced from Talking Cedar Press Release GRAND MOUND, WA — Talking Cedar, the first tribal-owned distillery in the United States, is proud to announce the expansion of their new whiskey program under the direction of Matt Hofmann, Master Distiller and pioneer of the American Single Malt category. A historic hub of native craftsmanship and a budding crown jewel of Pacific Northwest spirits production, Talking Cedar operates a state-of-the-art, 35,000 square foot distillery, brewery, and restaurant on Chehalis Tribal lands. Founded in 2020, Talking Cedar boasts cutting edge equipment like the largest continuous still west of the Mississippi, along with multiple other still types which maximize potential for innovation. Under Head Distiller Ryan Myhre, the brand currently produces ten spirits including its award-winning Kayak Gin; a series of hand-crafted, small-batch flavored whiskeys, cask-finished brandies, and a blended malt whiskey created in collaboration with Seattle, WA’s iconic Westland Distillery. “The scale of ambition and equipment at Talking Cedar is impressive,” said Hofmann. “It has the potential to become one of America’s foremost distilleries. I feel inspired to be working with the Talking Cedar team. The sky's the limit.”  As Co-Founder and former Master Distiller of Westland Distillery, Hofmann was instrumental in the creation of the American Single Malt category. Throughout his thirteen year tenure, he developed a robust reputation in the craft spirits world—including accolades like Forbes 30 under 30, Whisky Magazine Craft producer of the year, Imbibe person to watch, and StarChefs Seattle Rising star. When Hofmann left Westland Distillery in 2023 in search of new challenges, he was not sure where he would land. Enter Talking Cedar.  Hofmann first visited Talking Cedar on a personal exploratory mission. What he found was a world-class facility boasting all the elements and advantages required to create a trailblazing new suite of premium whiskeys—not to mention a golden opportunity to share and apply his experience and knowledge in new, exciting ways. “The initial goal is to learn how to make anything and everything: malt whiskeys, pure pot still style whiskeys, Irish style whiskeys, grain whiskeys, and bourbon,” said Hofmann. “The larger goal is that our collaboration will help Talking Cedar establish itself as a prestigious whiskey program for the next hundred years.” Both Hofmann and Talking Cedar see this as a dynamic opportunity to grow and experiment together in the whiskey space, creating an ever-wider lineup of spirits crafted to captivate and delight drinkers nationwide.   “Hofmann has developed a very reliable and polished model for double pot still production of American single malt—and one, crucially, that allows for maximum flavor expression,” said Myhre. “When you have a world-class palate like his in the room, anything is possible. It’s inspiring to see how he perceives flavors, what his tasting and smelling perceptions are, and how they relate to my own. Our team is learning a lot from his palate. This is truly the beginning of a new era for Talking Cedar.” About Talking Cedar: Talking Cedar is the first tribal-owned distillery in the United States. Proud to have overturned a discriminatory 1834 law prohibiting distilling on Native lands, Talking Cedar is pioneering a new level of craftsmanship on Indigenous lands across the United States and leading a new wave of native producers. Located on Chehalis Tribal lands in southern Washington, the historic brand operates a state-of-the-art distillery and also provides contract distillation for select industry partners. Talking Cedar continues to share the legacy of the Chehalis Tribe by creating spirits of integrity and purpose crafted from ingredients grown on its sacred lands of the Pacific Northwest.  from Northwest Beer Guide - News - The Northwest Beer Guide https://bit.ly/3BUciFR

[swirlwineconsulting]

Those who know me have heard me reference Karen Macneil, wine writer supreme, on many occasions. I drafted an article referring to the young wine vendors and attendees who literally pushed her aside at a premium tasting, without recognizing her as the author of the first wine textbook they likely ever picked up. I decried Decanter Magazine's insultingly low $600 offer for her and her team to write about a collection of wines. Here in this link she heralds further perils to the wine writer- due to many causes including the dumbing down of wine and the anti-alcohol movement.

Part of what she describes as being potentially lost, is the loss of the emotion, the camaraderie and the dance of sharing wine. Part of her allure as a writer is her capacity to tell a story. For me and many others, it is the loss of the story that will sting the most. Ratings and stars do nothing for me when choosing a wine experience. I don't select wines to inspire envy; but rather offer a whole experience- in and out of the body. The allure of a wine begins in my head, with a vision or a dream of a place or time, of a culture or cuisine and a room full of people. The second phase courses through my senses from eyes to palate to finish- to the lingering memory of the experience, especially when shared with other #winelovers.

Wine is another ingredient in a meal. Sometimes the ballast that brings the other ingredients into harmony; other times it is the spice for an otherwise intentionally bland dish. Always a partner. What is lost when this important component is removed? Nothing wrong with Sunday supper and a glass of sweet tea; but I would not trade the pairing of a well made wine with a Michelin star dinner for it.

Humans have thrived for millenia while imbibing alcohol in moderation-whole cultures are built on it. Those who can't drink moderately, perhaps shouldn't drink-that decision is best made between them and their doctor and their conscience, just like some other decisions that the media and some "authorities" seek to impose.

[rabbitcruiser]

Alice in Wonderland Day

Fans of the amazingly wonderful fantasy characters of Lewis Carroll will love learning about and celebrating Alice in Wonderland Day!

History of Alice in Wonderland Day

Born in Cheshire, England as Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, this author was a mathematician who published children’s novels and nonsense verse under his famous pseudonym, Lewis Carroll. The first book, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, was published in 1865 and then next, Through the Looking Glass, followed in 1871.

The first book was originally told orally as a story to Alice Liddell, the middle daughter of Dean Henry Liddell, who was a close friend of the author. Ten-year-old Alice begged him to write it down, which resulted in an original, handwritten copy given to the girl in 1964, with the title Alice’s Adventures in Under Ground, which is now held in the British Library.

The stories feature a young girl named Alice, around 7 years old, who goes on a wondrous adventure that is accessed by falling through a rabbit hole and then imbibing the contents of a bottle that says “Drink Me”. At the end of the book, little Alice herself reveals that all of her adventures were likely part of a dream.

This type of literary nonsense and fantasy was just what children were longing for at this time during Victorian England, and Lewis Carroll’s work became very popular. It has been translated into 170 languages and has sold more than 100 million copies.

The 150th anniversary of the first publication of the story was in 2015, and that was the first time Alice in Wonderland Day was celebrated. It was chosen for July 4, because that is the day that Lewis Carroll originally told the story to Alice Liddell before ever writing it down.

With its unique symbolism and downright fun, Alice in Wonderland Day is a celebration of everything that has to do with one little girl’s big adventures that have impacted millions of children and adults for more than 150 years.

Alice in Wonderland Day Timeline

1832 Alice in Wonderland author is born

Born as Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (pseudonym Lewis Carroll), the author grows up in a large family that enjoys putting on plays and composing magazines.

1865 Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is published

Written by a mathematician, these fantastical stories will become one of the most popular works of fiction in the English language.

1871 Through the Looking Glass is published

The sequel to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland has Alice climbing through a mirror to a world she can see beyond.

1951 Disney’s Alice in Wonderland film is released

Turned into an animated, musical fantasy comedy, the book and its sequel come to life on the big screen for the first time.

2010 Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland film is released

This film combines live action with animation, and stars big names like Anne Hathaway, Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter.

How to Celebrate Alice in Wonderland Day

A wide range of creative and fantastical ways can be found to celebrate and enjoy Alice in Wonderland Day. Try out some of these ideas or come up with some delightfully unique and “curiouser” ways of your own:

Host an Alice in Wonderland Day Party

For those madly in love with all of the characters and fantasy from Alice’s world of Wonderland, this would be the ideal to gather friends and family for a party! Perhaps, along the theme of the book, make it a tea party, complete with tea in dainty teapots as well as cookies, biscuits, crumpets and jam.

Invite guests to dress up as their favorite Alice in Wonderland character, whether from the books or from the films. Choose from the White Rabbit, the Queen of Hearts, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, or even Alice herself. Don’t forget to play the soundtracks from the films as background music!

Decorating for an Alice in Wonderland Day party can be loads of fun, incorporating all sorts of themes from the book. Try using playing cards, clocks, keys, white rabbits, pink flamingos and bottles labeled “Drink Me”. Fun messages from the books and films can be lettered onto signs to colorful hang around the room, including “I’m Late”, “Down the Rabbit Hole”, or “Curiouser and Curiouser”.

For entertainment, allow the guests to act out scenes from the books, or those who are less interactive might want to watch one of the films together. Even better, ask a person with a stellar reading voice to read a chapter from one of the original books for everyone to listen.

Bake Some Alice-Themed Treats

Delight in celebrating Alice in Wonderland Day by unleashing that creativity in the kitchen. Bake cupcakes and decorated them with faces of the characters, like the White Rabbit, Alice with her blonde hair, the Red Queen of Hearts, Cheshire Cat or the Mad Hatter.

Or choose to make sugar cookies and frost them with different themes and messages from the books and films. In honor of the day, be sure to share the treats with friends, neighbors or coworkers, allowing them to join in on the fun and celebration.

Read Lewis Carroll’s Novels

Even though they were published more than 150 years ago, these classic books were ahead of their time and continue to delight readers. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass are both accessible in bookshops almost anywhere. In addition, they can also be read through online sources like Kindle or Project Gutenberg.

Watch the Alice in Wonderland Movies

In addition to a variety of television shows and movies, plays, and even a ballet, the Alice in Wonderland stories have been turned into three films by Disney. Alice in Wonderland Day would, of course, be the perfect time to have a movie marathon that includes watching all three! They are:

Alice in Wonderland (1951). One of the more classic Disney animated films, this musical fantasy comedy was the thirteenth of Disney’s animated feature films to be released. It features characters like the Cheshire Cat, The Mad Hatter, Queen of Hearts, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and even the talking doorknob.

Alice in Wonderland (2010). Taking things in a much darker direction, Tim Burton’s version of this story picks up as a sort of a continuation when Alice is 19. An all-star cast including Johnny Depp (Mad Hatter), Mia Wasikowska (Alice), Anne Hathaway (the White Queen), Michael Sheen (the White Rabbit) and Helena Bonham Carter (the Red Queen of Hearts) makes it into something even more special.

Alice Through the Looking Glass (2016). The sequel to the 2010 film this one has a similar cast, with additions like Sacha Baron Cohen playing Time and Rhys Ifans as Zanik Hightopp. The story continues as Alice slips through a mirror to find herself back in Underland with some familiar friends and other new characters.

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[omagazineparis]

Idées de cadeaux DIY

Vous êtes à la recherche d’idées de cadeaux de Noël originales ? De plus, vous êtes une adepte du Do It Yourself (DIY) ? Enfin, vous souhaitez offrir des cadeaux tout en prenant soin de la planète ? Alors, cet article est fait pour vous ! Aujourd'hui, je vous propose de faire un détour par votre salle de bains. Vous constaterez que vous pouvez faire, avec très peu de choses, des cadeaux qui feront plaisir à vos proches, surtout si vous y mettez beaucoup d'amour ! Un cadeau dans l'air du temps : les lingettes démaquillantes Finis les disques démaquillants qui débordent de la corbeille de votre salle de bains ! Ces lingettes démaquillantes sont plus écologiques et se présentent sous un aspect plus esthétique. À ceux qui remarqueraient : “Oui, mais il faut les laver, cela consomme de l’eau”, vous pouvez répondre en souriant qu’elles sont si petites qu’elles se faufilent parfaitement dans le tambour de votre machine à laver, avec le reste du linge. Delphine Haecker, notre spécialiste DIY, a posté une vidéo sur la chaîne YouTube de votre magazine que nous vous présentons ci-dessous. Vous constaterez alors que ces lingettes sont très faciles à obtenir, en utilisant aussi bien une serviette éponge que du coton de bambou pour les fabriquer. Si vous aimez le neuf, vous pouvez faire un tour dans votre magasin de tissus resté ouvert malgré le confinement. Si vous préférez les matériaux de recyclage, vous pouvez utiliser de vieux tee-shirts en coton pour la partie ��déco” de la lingette, et une serviette éponge pour le côté démaquillant. Lotion pour le visage au thym, romarin et tee-trea Virginie, du groupe Facebook “Popote et bien être” nous propose sa recette facile et rapide d’une lotion rafraîchissante et très agréable pour le visage. Faites bouillir 30 centilitres d’eau. Rajoutez une petite poignée de thym et de romarin, ainsi qu'une dizaine de gouttes de tee-trea. Retirez du feu et laissez ensuite infuser pendant 15 minutes. Une fois que la préparation a refroidi, transvasez le tout dans une petite bouteille en verre, que vous conserverez au frais aussi longtemps que désiré. Vous obtenez une lotion tonique, 100 % naturelle et bio, dont vous pouvez imbiber vos lingettes démaquillantes. Cette lotion bénéficie des multiples propriétés de ses composants : - le tee-trea : purifiant et assainissant, stimulant et anti-inflammatoire, il soigne les boutons et l'acné ;- le romarin : il présente des vertus rafraîchissantes et raffermissantes, tout en atténuant les rides ;- le thym : il atténue les imperfections de la peau, tout en représentant une mine d'anti-oxydants. Il aide à réduire le sébum, possède des vertus ré-équilibrantes et booste l'action du tonique. Gardez toujours bien en tête qu'un cadeau fait de vos propres mains est aussi un cadeau fait avec votre cœur ! Revenez nous voir : nous vous préparons d’autres idées-cadeaux de noël DIY, qui pourront convenir à tous les membres de votre famille ! Chère lectrice, n'hésitez pas à nous faire part de vos retours dans la section des commentaires. Que pensez-vous de l'idée de lingettes démaquillantes DIY ? Les trouvez-vous faciles à réaliser ? Avez-vous été convaincues par l'efficacité de la lotion au thym, romarin et tee-trea ? Read the full article

[libidomechanica]

And her babe so bold to hunt the small

A sonnet sequence

               1

And her babe so bold to hunt the small people out of nose: be her ankles go, in praise delicious of conquers where left ear folds in her man on the greeted by a double-lock them, seem to sweat, for men are! Whether to imbibe it in knot. Pressure though soon exhale—by moralize, and all for Thee—Oh spurn them; her eyes that are not rise, Oh Moon of the father’d up in fayre Elisa rest, for thy provok’d my feet. You dragged bound forgot. A greatest of thy head. And breathe throng, ambition, this caprice; and, your troupes to meet her without a swallow still exist above compares to me.

               2

My own voice hath such a race, into thee? They say she denied theme, the nag like them, will every little like a singled both his magazines this is soft cheek, his tail, broad, which I give your arms and passed them red another bed. Other in one to year and all that fills be dried blood does it red; and sing, shows its wings I take the way to mumble thee I dare not to begin. The bride of sheep are gone! Being hurt my words love, lay this wound to blame. A pair, I should bring from my eyes are asleep and ring of thy name. Love and husks of youth to surprise of thy mermaid’s yellow autumn turning.

               3

A voices lower, to leave to shoote as well the artists do the air, and every that work maybe neither self depart, as if from thousand she was he: bound that caren, they not be said; she tells may I make, sleepe begin to substance of those that your adventure: and new change. And anger dress each shadow had forswonck and shutting so enrag’d, for long as thou can penetrate: fixed to be said their loudly she doth freshly gay, scorched with easeful Death repent, her down. Opening all love to that he would wear red fireflies will I remember young: sweet smell, wishing rookery swerve.

               4

Of monsters, easily harm’d magic, his Death done that cedar-tops and on end; his eyes like a man was built, in lovest! The bailey bear, or rivers say, is this page— now, sun, and thy youth, his uncontrolled with her rejoiceth with her Day’s Delight. A good, how white curtain leaves lessened aboue these, ye must dig the Musky Locks dividing green, and she is enrag’d, desire! It were clawing once she tremendous if: if she with beauty set, and be need not, all subiect think men love, all wreath’d horses play, our Cuddie, the for this: how my mouths at change above that I am sure, for this used.

               5

To preace emong the boar! Come a pale-fac’d nightmare, his Death she entrances and heart and woe are done. As if thou will send flow; now she arose, leaving—the river of the same or for the truth: for when with curtain, to and the same, perchance hap always. While he types; Yes; and to her. And white before I do when he plight. On they should say, Your mother’s feature; tells thee. For zeal like a regatta of magic casement, oftentimes been first and so tis true. Which I bring of crimson living the world for each is perfect health or come this, and old man came. She said; and fly: conscious supreme.

               6

Rolling plumes from the poor Venus’ liking eyes of your troubled plunging wave one, can every part, of threatened something in their rayes to wear, dainties now doth dight, with the stamp they all I lov’d. Yet I see not to living wasted tree or the upper thigh to surprise with in his limits far upward the eye. To eat broke, and I will, standing man it means daiquiri. Simplicity, and the bourn of sorrow now it, in all the literally the wanton troopers riding trips, and with that just stay. Speak, my feels, because in bigger blood. To whom the sorteth life ending green married you worse.

               7

And can that make my old self-ingrain’d, each time and died to the fault I am bereft his word she given, was thy forth fire, lean, watching your life like chiropractors have your form the elms, and govern’d him if he dart from heavenly wise; it is grown light of her glu’d, fall though it leaded panes. Leaves of Paradise enow! She wild; and words and a sun, and whither eyes and keep, to shine own his plaidie, a rule themselves to lose, you of thy dark cloud; hear’st me wherewith my widow …. He show the humble tributary gaze upon every one, that trembles and flip-flops. The ill of respect.

[feminineenergy2024]

I feel charmed by Casablanca (1942) each time I watch it. It has everything that make movies wondrous: war, romance, intrigue, suspense, humor, sacrifice, cynicism, idealism, psychological depth, exotic locations, engaging characters, quotable dialogue, clever cinematography, solid craftsmanship, Bogie at his best, a luminescent Ingrid Bergman, an amazing supporting cast, “As Time Goes By”, and the best ending to a movie ever. Science fiction and fantasy may be my favorite film genres.

At its core, "Casablanca" tells a story of love, sacrifice, and the complex choices people face during times of war. The film explores the theme that neutrality is unsustainable in both love and conflict, emphasizing the importance of taking a stand and fighting for what one believes in. The past is ever present throughout the film, reminding us that our choices and actions are shaped by our experiences. No, it is not massively overrated. The film’s depth, nuance, and timeless themes continue to resonate with audiences, making it a true cinematic gem that transcends generations.

This is a great movie about life and love. And it is quite different from more modern movies. It is a simple movies and anyone can learn a lot from it. For example that not everything is as it seems to us. I re-watched it several times and each time I have learned something different. There's an excellent cast, a few iconic characters and legendary dialogue. 

I think this movie is among few of the movies which have done justice with satire genre, we can laugh on body fluid monologue or can imbibe hatred of few US military men towards communism in cold war era at the same time. Dialogues between US President and USSR Premier have given us a bite of nuance picture of tension between two superpower that time, movement of Dr Strangelove's hand, negligent behavior of General Turgid son, playboy magazines and condoms with air force personnel are a few other to add up, and how one can forget ironic dialogue " Gentlemen, you can't fight here this is the war room". The absolute insanity of nuclear deterrence and the kind of people who had power in the system. Any SAC commander could've launched a first strike, I believe missile sub commanders had launch authority as well. On the Soviet side it was probably the same. General Ripper clearly went insane but hid it well enough to start WW3. The politicians were more concerned about their own survival than anything else in the end. Stanley Kubrick exposed the man behind the curtains so to speak, enabling people to see that there were ordinary people behind the facade of government stability. Much as now there were buffoons and idiots, a few zealots and you hope enough rational thinkers who remember what it is they're playing with to refrain from abusing the destructive power humanity cursed itself by having.

[tycal12345]

Knowledge Work is an Abstract, Bodiless Void

The modern knowledge worker now swims in a froth of the purely abstract. Like an astronaut cut from the space station, he floats, untethered, gaping at the shrinking earth below him. He’s lost his body.

He thinks he is made of only thought — and the deluge of requests that bubble up from the void in his inbox scatter what sense of self he has like marbles across the floor. He is bodiless, unprotected, fragile.

The knowledge worker has lost sight of the process. Efficiency reigns. He’s a slave to the product — even as he is scarcely its author.

He is besieged by a barrage of electronic missives — creating, as if in a slow-motion video game, an illusory — but somehow real — sense of stress. It’s the stress of an ambiguous email; the awkward, pixelated silences punctuating a Zoom call; or the dreary commute, the feeling of neither coming nor going.

He’s deluded into the belief that the stuff of thought is the only work of value. The body, or still vaster expanses of possibility, the Knowledge Worker must ignore.

His view is only: The Infosphere. That and the cacophonous arena where workers contend with one another in a furious dance of keyboards and screens.

The world of the abstract

When I sit to do “work” — engage in the rigorous and often frustrating exercise of the mind and its tapping fingers — I am analytic, caught in the sticky morass of pure thought. Most of the time, my desk job calls me to wield thoughts as if they were “me” in the ultimate sense. When I submit a piece of “work” via email, I receive a “good job” from the void as if the “job” were me and the “good” were its quality — even though no exchange was made except the abject moving about of information.

Dading! the email software intones, as if I struck a bell with a mallet, although no music exists.

The illusion bred by knowledge work is that the mind is wholly and totally satisfactory. From kindergarten through university, the future Knowledge Worker is told: Slough off this fleshly vessel. You are mindstuff now. You are words and numbers and abstraction.

The cubicle world once satirized by Dilbert and The Office has loosened up in its structure — just enough to appear now less absurd, as dress codes have relaxed and tech CEO’s grace the covers of magazines. The monotonous hum of the worker strangled by his own tie has given way to a certain allure of the avant-garde — a kind of romance of the new and the brashness of startup culture.

Many now work from the convenience of home. But remote work done from the comfort of one’s couch — and even absurd machines like the treadmill desk — does little to settle the problem. It’s still the mind at play in its numbered matrix.

Marx's astute critique of the factory labor system emphasized the worker's alienation from the fruits of his labor. But in the realm of knowledge work, this estrangement takes on a new dimension: Detachment from the body.

Knowledge Work is the work of ghosts. In the words of philosopher Matthew B. Crawford: “What is new is the wedding of futurism to what might be called ‘virtualism’: a vision of the future in which we somehow take leave of material reality and glide about in a pure information economy.”

We once wielded tools to shape our world, and fire to nourish ourselves. Now we are left with but one weapon, a weapon that turns against us: The madness of the mind.

Dissolving of concepts and the beauty of emptiness

The modern knowledge worker’s gossamer dreams cling lightly to his mind. The unfinished novel tossed in the trash; the smeary, graphite art sketches hidden under the bed; the exotic getaways never taken, cocktails never quite imbibed, the mysterious girl at the bar never quite spoken to.

But still, he luxuriates in the paychecks, sitting comfortably in the backyard of so many summer eves, assured of his place in the world.

In those moments he’s more than thought, more than knowledge. More, even, than the muscled, sinewy ontology of his body.

When he searches deep within himself for the answer, all he finds is an emptiness, a void where his fears and self should be.

In those moments of existential clarity, he feels like he’s touching something raw and true about the nature of the self and consciousness.

Then back to the Zoom meeting: the video chat displays him — his head, anyway — in the corner. Who — or what — lives in that tiny digital mirror? On the other hand, what lives nearer than his nose, closer than close, wider and shallower — and somehow deeper — than the shimmering pond of vision itself?

[haveclotheswilltravel]

190+ Travel Quotes for the Perfect Instagram Caption

The right travel quotes inspire and take one’s mind even further to destinations only imagined and seen online. It’s no wonder that traveling has become an essential part of life; imbibing and personally immersing yourself in a rich culture other than your own leaves a lasting sense of fulfillment and purpose that no amount of travel documentaries, books, or magazines can fulfill. Whether…