https://vernacularjournal.com Vernacular Journal Sat, 13 Jun 2026 07:02:26 +0000 https://vernacularjournal.com en https://vernacularjournal.com/Rupture Thu, 11 Jun 2026 21:04:26 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/Rupture Rupture Lena KamperiPhotography as well as trauma are constantly navigating between the past and the present. Trauma compels the present to be lived as if the traumatic event of the past were still unfolding, whereas taking a photograph captures the present and turns it into a ruin— a fragment of what has already passed. Our bodies are navigating spaces, bearing a perpetual rupture between the past and the present. Reflecting, mirroring, resisting and allying. &nbsp; <img width="1920" height="1279" width_o="1920" height_o="1279" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0c6df83e4f885cf7631bf227ce748e38f34afc6f985af2c5b7063c55d1b3a4e7/1.jpg" data-mid="249383134" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0c6df83e4f885cf7631bf227ce748e38f34afc6f985af2c5b7063c55d1b3a4e7/1.jpg" /> <img width="1920" height="1279" width_o="1920" height_o="1279" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6c9ad665574df5be71f5333bd3d6dcd30f06e626cf0fb4d6a8573780a31c1909/2.jpg" data-mid="249383133" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6c9ad665574df5be71f5333bd3d6dcd30f06e626cf0fb4d6a8573780a31c1909/2.jpg" /> <img width="1920" height="1279" width_o="1920" height_o="1279" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/cd4ff44c5ff52e8054a656540513b752135e9c61f5e505ffba81cf314b7a3338/3.jpg" data-mid="249383137" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/cd4ff44c5ff52e8054a656540513b752135e9c61f5e505ffba81cf314b7a3338/3.jpg" /> <img width="1841" height="1196" width_o="1841" height_o="1196" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/9b85bdabe021f5d398541b37cca0f9d65b672743c5462dfc680b9ffbcf72d7d3/4.jpg" data-mid="249383136" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/9b85bdabe021f5d398541b37cca0f9d65b672743c5462dfc680b9ffbcf72d7d3/4.jpg" /> <img width="1279" height="1920" width_o="1279" height_o="1920" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d6e590e28e848f8cfb0d1b2abad86909e98ebbe19c50b47f586c7c30a993aab7/5.jpg" data-mid="249383135" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/d6e590e28e848f8cfb0d1b2abad86909e98ebbe19c50b47f586c7c30a993aab7/5.jpg" /> <img width="1279" height="1279" width_o="1279" height_o="1279" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6cfca658e1b6be53730fecded62da31a182527c547399003b351fd6dc9e21cee/6.jpg" data-mid="249383130" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6cfca658e1b6be53730fecded62da31a182527c547399003b351fd6dc9e21cee/6.jpg" /> <img width="1279" height="1920" width_o="1279" height_o="1920" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5782e4d16c242257102bb68f6b6bccedc97853032ab30a7b841ca49647d8ad96/7.jpg" data-mid="249383129" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5782e4d16c242257102bb68f6b6bccedc97853032ab30a7b841ca49647d8ad96/7.jpg" /> <img width="1279" height="1279" width_o="1279" height_o="1279" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3a8b97ec8c44aefa033a45e51ffdff7eb1a5060fac5254af82bed70d2523b9a1/8.jpg" data-mid="249383132" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3a8b97ec8c44aefa033a45e51ffdff7eb1a5060fac5254af82bed70d2523b9a1/8.jpg" /> <img width="1279" height="1920" width_o="1279" height_o="1920" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7536f918819f6aeddf7f307040aa55559e3b81fc5e94e2aa4081e74b80d2d2a5/9.jpg" data-mid="249383131" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7536f918819f6aeddf7f307040aa55559e3b81fc5e94e2aa4081e74b80d2d2a5/9.jpg" /> <img width="1920" height="1279" width_o="1920" height_o="1279" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/fb26eb7b41effc1215d7d1fbf667bf3918ad65d08b16fad022f1578f0c7ff53f/10.jpg" data-mid="249383128" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/fb26eb7b41effc1215d7d1fbf667bf3918ad65d08b16fad022f1578f0c7ff53f/10.jpg" /> <img width="1279" height="1920" width_o="1279" height_o="1920" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f434a7e64b29d7347bd6cf52488f95347878a9265a5020db03f2637e97874dee/11.jpg" data-mid="249383127" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f434a7e64b29d7347bd6cf52488f95347878a9265a5020db03f2637e97874dee/11.jpg" /> <img width="1920" height="1279" width_o="1920" height_o="1279" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/78995bd4366524ea0c2ef0301aa7dd7adc974d801955ca7f9a83e3ff48dbea36/12.jpg" data-mid="249383126" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/78995bd4366524ea0c2ef0301aa7dd7adc974d801955ca7f9a83e3ff48dbea36/12.jpg" /> https://vernacularjournal.com/London-Portuguese-Without-Translation Thu, 11 Jun 2026 19:26:39 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/London-Portuguese-Without-Translation London Portuguese (Without Translation) John Madridi. The app says: ORDER ASSIGNED. The app says: CUSTOMER WAITING. The app says: You are 0.3 miles away. I say: Coming now. These are my three languages for the street. ii. Glossary: Coming now Not: I am coming now. Not: I will arrive shortly. Not: Já estou indo, espera um segundo que tô no sinal. Coming now is a complete sentence in rider English. It contains an apology, a promise, and whatever is happening on Seven Sisters Road. It is the language of a person who has learned that brevity reads as competence. iii. At the restaurant counter I say: Sorry mate, order for— and show the screen. The cook doesn't look up. The bag is already there. He has done this a thousand times with a thousand people holding a thousand phones. We have a small shared language of efficiency. It doesn't require names. I take the bag. I say: Cheers. He says: Safe. Both of us have managed it perfectly. iv. How to say: the bag is heavier than I expected and my shoulder has been hurting since October You don't. v. There is a second job, which is the other job. On the bus home, still in the jacket, I open a document and read other people's sentences. I cut a word. I add a comma. Someone in New York is paying me twenty dollars per thousand words to make their prose feel more considered. The rate has not changed in three years. The bus goes through Finsbury Park. A man near the door is eating chips. The smell is specific — vinegar, warmth, something like kindness. I don't write this down. vi. A landlord text, received October, transcribed here exactly: Hi can you let me know when rent going in this month as I have my own bills to pay thanks The "thanks" is doing a lot of work. I have studied British thanks the way you study a warning sign: the polite ones are the most dangerous. I pay the rent. I do not explain that I paid the rent three days early. I write back: Hi — should be with you by Friday, thanks. I use "thanks" too. I have learned. vii. Glossary: All good A phrase I use in English that has no equivalent in the Portuguese I grew up speaking. In Portuguese there is tá bom, which means roughly: okay, understood, that will do. There is sem problema, which is warmer, more generous. There is pode deixar, which is hard to explain — something like: leave it with me, I'll take care of it, trust me. All good is faster than any of these. It asks nothing of the other person. It closes the conversation without leaving a door open. I say it many times a day. I have started to wonder what I mean by it. viii. The GP receptionist says: And is this urgent? I say: I think it might be, yes. She says: Can you describe the issue briefly? I describe it briefly. She types. She does not look up while she types, which is its own kind of efficiency. She says they can offer me an appointment in three weeks. She says if it becomes an emergency I should call 111. She says: Okay? I say: Yes, thank you. She has given me nothing and I have thanked her for it. This is, I understand, correct behaviour. I go back through the glass door into the cold. There's a word in Portuguese — sufoco — that means a tightness, a difficulty breathing, but also the feeling of being pressed from all sides at once. I think of it on the pavement and then I stop thinking of it, the way you stop reaching for a word you've decided not to use. ix. CUSTOMER WAITING. The intercom is broken. I press it anyway. I press it again. I type into the notes field: Buzzer not working, please come to door. I wait. My rating depends on the customer coming to the door. My pay depends on my rating. I stand in the rain on a street whose name I will have forgotten by morning. The door opens. The customer is young and in socks and holds the door with one hand and reaches for the bag with the other without making eye contact. I say: Have a good evening. The door closes. I think: Boa noite. The phrase comes up in me involuntarily, like a reflex, like something the body still wants to say. x. How to say: proof of address A letter addressed to you at your current address, proving that you live where you live. This is circular logic built into a bureaucratic system, and it is also, in practice, something that does not arrive easily when you have moved four times in two years. You take the bank statement to the council. You take the council letter to the bank. You take them both to the letting agent who says: this is a bit unusual. This is not a translation problem. It is a documentation problem. The difference matters and also doesn't. xi. Voice note received from my mother, Sunday, 11:47pm her time: [forty-two seconds] She is telling me about something that happened at the market. Something about a woman she used to know. The story goes sideways, comes back, goes sideways again, finds its own destination. She does not edit herself. She is not performing for anyone. She says my name in the middle of the forty-two seconds for no reason except, I think, that she is still in the habit of saying it. I listen to it twice on the bus, the second time without headphones by mistake, so the woman beside me can hear my mother's voice in miniature, filling the space between us. I don't find a way to feel embarrassed about this. xii. What I send home: Tá tudo bem, tô trabalhando bastante. Which means: everything fine, working a lot. Which means: I am not explaining the intercom, or the receptionist, or the thanks, or the twenty dollars per thousand words. I am giving you the edited version, the one that requires nothing from you at a distance of nine thousand kilometres. I am giving you tá tudo bem the way you hand a customer a bag: quickly, correctly, without incident. xiii. Glossary: Heartburn What I tell people I have when I don't want to say: a tightness in the chest that arrives in the evening and may or may not be physiological. What people say: Oh yeah, Gaviscon is really good for that. What I do: buy the Gaviscon, which works, mostly. The word is a good container. It holds just enough. xiv. There is a word my grandmother used — aperto — which is not heartburn and not anxiety. It is the feeling of being held too tightly by circumstances. Not squeezed to the point of pain. Just held. Just aware of the pressure. She used it about money. About the rains that didn't come. About the particular loneliness of Sunday afternoons in a house where everyone had already left. I have not found a use for it here in conversation. Not because the feeling is absent. Because the language doesn't have the slot for it, and I have not yet earned the right to introduce new containers. xv. On a Friday night in November, between one delivery and the next, I sit in a chicken shop and open the document again and read a sentence I wrote a week ago: She said nothing, because there was nothing that could be said that would not cost her something. I read it three times. I think it is good. I think it is about me and not about the character at all. I close the document. The app says: ORDER ASSIGNED. I go. xvi. The thing that doesn't translate is not the word. It's the weight behind the word. Underneath there is a whole geology — family, class, region, weather, the specific smell of a kitchen at a particular hour, the way a particular person said your name on a particular afternoon. You can translate the word. The geology stays where it is. xvii. Last thing before sleep: I check the app. I check the inbox. I check WhatsApp. I check the bank. The same four gestures, in the same order, every night. I write three sentences in a document I will not send to anyone yet. I think: saudade — and then I think: no. That's too easy. That's the word tourists use, the word that has been translated so many times it has become a souvenir of itself. It belongs on a tea towel now. It belongs in an airport. I think instead of the forty-two seconds, the market story, the woman she used to know, the way it found its own destination. I turn off the light. In the dark, quietly, to no one: Boa noite. Not a translation. Not a performance. Just keeping the language warm, the way you keep a fire going not because you need it right now but because you might. https://vernacularjournal.com/Olfactory-Girl Thu, 11 Jun 2026 21:14:05 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/Olfactory-Girl Olfactory Girl&nbsp; Ashley Denny Petch&nbsp; I have never smelled an ant. There are apparently, however, some lucky humans who can. They describe the smell as almost musty or similar to blue cheese. I admit I'm jealous. I love trying new things.I know it’s not a competition, but I think I smell maybe a bit better than most people. Maybe not insects, but I can smell the coffee from my upstairs neighbour's window. Or a faint gasoline smell that forces me to open all the windows in my office, just in case. Garlic and onions wafting out of the apartments in my neighborhood at lunchtime. The faint but piercing smell of mould from an overused kitchen towel. Most importantly, my nose knows what’s ouzo and what’s tsipouro. The problem with smell begins when you try to describe it. Jasmine smells like a sweet sickness, pine smells spiky and far away, fresh cut grass smells like my childhood. All of a sudden, we’re in a perfume commercial. And besides, I'm not interested in smelling my memories. I know all about Proust and his overly active limbic system.Unlike those for sight and hearing, which once damaged or destroyed no longer function, the neurons in our nose are replaced every thirty days. So what does that allow us? The luxury of time, maybe. FlanodeurAs I walk through the city, I try to map the smells I experience, but I struggle to fix them to locations. Sometimes, the nearest intersection to my house smells like burnt rubber but other days, it smells like basil. Unlike a soundscape, smell is heavily dependent on time. It’s not a map I need to make, but a calendar.&nbsp;January: The smell of baking bread from a fournos at 2am. February: The essence of essence. Athens is full of errant petrol and humidity.March: Tsiknopempti! Literally translates to Smoky Thursday, where everyone grills their pre-Lenten meat outdoors. It’s the best day of the year. April: The arresting odour of Orange blossoms everywhere. May: The buttery sweet aroma of Wisteria, if you’re lucky to get up close to it.&nbsp; June: The high pitched citrus smell of nerantzia, smashed open on the concrete everywhere you step.&nbsp; July:&nbsp;Fortress walls of night-blooming Jasmine. August:&nbsp;It’s 45 degrees and nothing is open. It’s hot garbage time, baby! September:&nbsp;Thousands of raw fish on ice in Athinas Market. Something you always smell before you see ‘em. October: It’s my birthday and I smell cake! And rain. It smells like wet beautiful birthday concrete.&nbsp; November: Wood burning ovens. How can a cost of living crisis indicator smell so good? December: The earthy, comforting smell of roasting chestnuts from the cart. Before I moved to Athens, I thought that was a made up thing from a Christmas Carol.&nbsp; Of course, each city has their own distinct timetable of smells, as rich and diverse as raw fish and petrol. But despite how lucky we are to live in a dynamic olfactory world, we constantly try to hide the unpleasant ones and re-package the agreeable ones. For example, I own two perfumes. One is called “Augustos” and the other “Kyma”. Translation: ‘August’ and ‘the Waves’. But how did they get all those waves into a tiny bottle? And why do I want to smell like the waves? It’s almost as if fragrance marketing is meaningless. It’s invocation all the way down. Smell is often reduced to a secondary or lesser sense. Attempts that I can think of to spotlight smell, like scratch and sniff stickers, mr. sketch markers or smell-o-vision feel kitschy and nostalgic and unserious. And even during Covid when so many people temporarily lost their ability, a 2022 study still showed that the majority of respondents would give up their sense of smell for a measly $10,000. Conversely, the ancient Greeks and Romans were dead serious (and seriously dead) about smell, linking it directly to health and divinity. Aristotle argued that smell is a bridge to taste, claiming that "pleasant" aromas evolved specifically to protect our health. Ancient Athenians engaged with their statues through scent, slathering them in oils and draping them in garlands of spices and flowers until certain deities became synonymous with a specific fragrance: Aphrodite with roses, Apollo with laurel, Dionysos with smoky thursdays. But us future idiots in the modern world have abandoned scent and all its great powers. We do not afford it the seriousness it deserves. Instead, we’ve reduced it to yankee candles and synthetic vanilla extract. Smell acts as a wayfinding device. It orients you to a place and time. If I had only my sense of smell and nothing else, I reckon I’d be able to find my way on foot from Koukaki back to Excarchia (stopping for a souvlaki or two on the way, of course). Smell is also defensive. It turns out that you can only smell ants when they’re stressed out and/or have been crushed to death. So far all you sharp-nosed, ant smelling show-offs, what you’re actually smelling is violence. The same thing applies for fresh cut grass - it starts to smell because it emits “Green Leaf Volatiles”, a defensive distress signal. Even the delicious smell of garlic &amp; onions is emitted in an attempt to repel pests and protect the plant from fungal infections. Smell is purposeful. It’s not just a nostalgic bric-a-brac; it’s evidence of molecular truth.&nbsp;&nbsp; Olfacio, ergo sum In the 18th century, there was a very lazy priest and philosopher named Étienne Bonnot De Condillac. In his book Treatise on the Sensations, Condillac argued that our consciousness and moral existence is built uniquely out of raw sensory perception. He demonstrates this in a fun, sexy thought experiment, asking us to close our eyes and imagine a marble statue, completely inanimate, awakened to the world one of the five senses at a time. He started with smell. Condillac first grants the statue the scent of a rose. Because the statue has no eyes to see the stem, no sense of touch to feel a thorn, and no concept of an ‘outside’ world, it cannot think, “I am a person smelling a flower.” Instead, Condillac explains that the statue's entire universe collapses into that single olfactory molecule. The statue becomes the odour of the rose. When the scent is removed, a residue remains and thus, the statue gains memory.&nbsp; The statue is then given other smells - carnation, jasmine, violets. By comparing these new scents to the memory of the rose, preference and desire begin to shape its interior life. (Not many people know this, but Seal actually has a PhD in this very concept) Condillac then proceeds to give the statue the remaining senses, first sound, then sight, and finally touch. Through this progressive addition of senses, the statue gains the ability to compare and to judge, and then can distinguish between pleasure and pain. Once imbued with all the senses, he erupts into full human consciousness. For Condillac, thinking, reasoning, and even our moral judgments are not mysterious, abstract virtues built into our souls from birth; they are simply our raw physical sensations, transformed and sophisticated over time by our interface with the world. Just like Condillac's statue when he encounters the scent of a rose, in August, in Athens, I AM the hot garbage.&nbsp;&nbsp; Deodorize me, Daddy A lot of visitors to Athens describe it as dirty and smelly. This is true. It’s both. But it is also alive. North American cities, in particular, are typically much more visually pristine, but in terms of sensations, they tend to be much more sterile. In her book Urban Smellscapes, the researcher Victoria Henshaw wrote that modern engineering is obsessed with hiding the "plumbing" of human survival. Most modern cities implement aggressive, invisible methods to render their environments completely scent-neutral. For example, in commercial districts, urban planners deliberately choose hybrid ornamental tree breeds that have been genetically engineered not to flower, specifically to eliminate those heavy, honeyed scents of honeysuckle or linden that might disrupt a consumer zone. Or they exclusively plant male clones of the Ginkgo biloba tree, because the female trees drop seeds that rot on the pavement and smell like rancid butter. The physical infrastructure of our cities is also weaponized against naturally occurring smells. Unlike brick or untreated clay, which absorbs the environment and emits a heavy, earthy odour when it gets damp, modern plazas and pedestrian districts are built using treated stone and synthetic composites engineered to repel moisture and stay completely inert. And where older versions of cities let you smell the underground through raw subway grates, modern urban design uses hidden exhaust stacks and charcoal filters to scrub the smell of sewage before it can ever hit the street. Or think of ‘ambient scent marketing’, as Henshaw calls it. If you’ve ever been within a 300-meter distance of an Abercrombie &amp; Fitch, you are familiar with this concept. Instead of allowing organic smells, businesses will pump synthetic scents into the air meant to be pleasing and to trigger ‘buying’ behaviour. When we scrub a surface clean of its history, its labor, and its decay, we aren't making it safer - we are making it unreadable. A completely sanitized environment lies to us; it pretends that consumption has no cost. Surfaces, like the cities we live in, should be readable and honest. There are no good or bad smells, just honest or dishonest ones. And it is my belief that we are forcing our bodies to repeat the same sanitizing logic as the smells on our streets. RIP Cassavetes, you would have hated Botox I’m 38 years old, an age where the human surface, our faces especially, start to get really interesting. Yet, I am surrounded by Botox. It has become our default state. Almost everyone has it, or is planning on getting it soon. If you don’t think that’s true for you, look harder. We live in an era of paralyzed foreheads and migrated fillers. I tell myself that I believe fiercely in bodily autonomy, but I’m deeply disturbed by the prevalence of Botox and I’m trying to understand why. At first blush, it seems deeply hypocritical. I have tattoos. Why is this different? The only coherent distinction I can make is the difference between decoration and preservation. A tattoo, no matter how stupid, is an addition; it’s an active, visible inscription onto a surface. A tattoo is permanent, and at the constant mercy of your body as you age. It gets sunburnt, it stretches, it fades, it sags. It decays along with you, so it feels readable. Botox, conversely, is a subtraction. It doesn't decorate the surface; it attempts to halt time. Just like a scent-neutral city, faces with no expression lie to us. It pretends that bodies do not age or die. &nbsp;&nbsp; When we see someone else look sad or scared or happy, our brains tell our facial muscles to unconsciously mimic that expression. We frown or wince or smile. This physical mimicry sends an immediate signal back to the brains, the amygdala, to help us interpret and feel the emotion of the person standing in front of us. When you freeze your face, you don't just stop a wrinkle; you disrupt the mechanical feedback loop that allows for human empathy. You choose to become unreadable. A pre-conscious marble statue, if you will. Public life depends on readable surfaces. We build communities based on shared perception. Both the sanitized city and the Botoxed face operate out of the exact same terror: they fear the leakage. They fear the involuntary disclosure of reality. Lacan said that of all the senses, smell is the only that reduces the distance to zero. And even though he was a little French weirdo, he’s right. A world where we try to manufacture a distance is a dishonest one. A deodorized, Botoxed world is a world that refuses intimacy. &nbsp;&nbsp; In Which Sniffing is Outlawed in the Near-Future Dystopia Someday, we’ll all live in that completely deodorized city. We will wander through sterile plazas of sealed stone, under cloned trees that don’t know how to blossom, and we will weep at our misfortune. But the salinity from our tears produces an unauthorized smell and Mayor Descartes kicks us out. Once we’re exiled and past the city gates, we start furiously stepping on ants just to smell something. I can’t stop any of this. I can only frantically frown my disproval, in hopes that the lines in my forehead drive down so deep in my face that they form a moat. https://vernacularjournal.com/Making-Sense Sat, 13 Jun 2026 07:02:26 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/Making-Sense Making Sense Mariana Meireles CuradoThree houses stand on top of the hill in a neat little row; step inside the one in the middle if you want life to be something other than long. To reach them you need to follow the old town’s defensive wall and I should probably warn you that in the world I’m building wives spend their days keeping the village safe while husbands stay in weaving joy. Tell me about all the things you’ve learned today as soon as I get home. Shall I go first? Today I poured the enemy a drink and we sat together looking for common ground. They’re scared for their grandchildren who are yet to be vaccinated, yet to be christened, in for a shock when they find out how much bureaucracy is involved in all great adventures. I learned that we share a great fear of three things: His judgement, prolonged bad weather, and being stuck with distant relatives you have very little in common with. Then just as I was starting to feel like maybe all the fighting was futile, I asked them to think of a number between one and ten and before I could say anything else, they went: four. Now, please, your thoughts on everything. Today the melons smelled so sweet you almost failed to notice they were rotten. The donkey who pulls the fruit car up and down the narrow road and the man who owns both stop by every day and even when you don’t take anything, he insists that you keep the receipt. He says you never know and because we have to agree, we obediently pocket the paper records of all the things we didn’t buy. In the mornings the old urban planner who went mad from boredom after finishing square one and square two spends around twenty minutes shouting obscenities, but they don’t sound threatening to trained ears. If I could ever afford to be afraid, I’d fear that soon these tales will live too far away and we’ll have to count on our own crow’s feet to remind us of how seagulls used to sound through the open windows. <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5ef116c0659add1f6846f81c790e83aa171fb54b95bf6c18324a489f4617e0df/unnamed.jpg" data-mid="249411155" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5ef116c0659add1f6846f81c790e83aa171fb54b95bf6c18324a489f4617e0df/unnamed.jpg" /> https://vernacularjournal.com/Panacea Wed, 10 Jun 2026 15:10:55 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/Panacea Panacea Teena Denny For the past 29 years my chosen vocation has been working in an elementary school as an educational assistant.&nbsp; I typically work with children with special needs - kids on the spectrum, kids with behavioural issues, kids with learning disabilities.&nbsp; I’m good at my job. I love my job. Mostly. Back in the dawn of the nineties when I was in college, I was told by prof after prof that this vocation has a shelf life - 15 years.&nbsp; 20 at most.&nbsp; Then burnout.&nbsp; Too physically demanding.&nbsp; Too many injuries.&nbsp; Too little financial compensation.&nbsp; Too many injustices in the system.&nbsp; Just too much to be able to effectively do your job after so many years. I scoffed at the time.&nbsp; This was surely my calling and I could do it happily for ever and always.&nbsp; I still believe that.&nbsp; Mostly. After almost three decades in the field I still love my job and I don’t feel that burnout is lurking around any corners for me, but I do have my moments.&nbsp; Moments of frustration, of exhaustion, of feeling inadequate and inept, of cynicism so deep it feels like a wound. These are the times that an old adage runs on repeat through my head - I am too old for this. For the last 4 years, I have been working at an inner city elementary school here in Ottawa. Children at my school face significant challenges rooted in poverty.&nbsp; Trauma, insecurity and mental health issues at home often spill into the classroom.&nbsp; The needs here are higher than anything I’ve experienced before, but because of that, the impact feels bigger too. My ripple in the proverbial pond spreads further. &nbsp;&nbsp; Some days feel like a hectic, adrenaline-fueled fever dream.&nbsp; Backup required for a severely dysregulated student. Fights in the yard. Understaffing means extra responsibilities, and I’m pinballed from room to room, trying to put out fires. The noise, the chaos, the neediness - it can be smothering. It drapes around me like a damp, unshakeable cloak. On especially stressful days, nothing helps more than a bit of healthy dissociation.&nbsp; I can usually manage it during my very brief morning break or while eating lunch. I put on my invisible noise-cancelling headphones and dip into my drug of choice: online auctions.&nbsp; I’ve become quite good at blocking out the staffroom and sinking into my treasure-seeking abyss, even if it’s only for a few minutes. It’s usually enough to give my brain a small reset. Earlier this year, I stumbled onto something better.&nbsp; It has a rapid onset of relief and a much higher potency than a quick escape into the interweb. Its effect is immediate and grants me a complete reset.&nbsp; My miracle panacea is a tree. Not just any tree. More specifically it is the bough of a tree that I see through a large window in one of the stairwells at school. The second floor window frames a set of branches that look remarkably like a pair of bent legs… and a very prominent penis.&nbsp; I call it Penis Tree. <img width="1542" height="2047" width_o="1542" height_o="2047" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/225ff3be81c94015b1e98376f177562c66e89f035369b76e3e2a86f8fe4f0e02/af603933-984b-4cce-9752-43948f8f8cb6.jpeg" data-mid="249381831" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/225ff3be81c94015b1e98376f177562c66e89f035369b76e3e2a86f8fe4f0e02/af603933-984b-4cce-9752-43948f8f8cb6.jpeg" /> Penis Tree amuses me far more than it should.&nbsp; There’s something about the ridiculousness of it - the old wizened bark of this otherwise noble tree, and that one very committed appendage announcing itself so proudly. The instant I step into that stairwell, I check on it.&nbsp; It’s covered in snow today - feeling festive.&nbsp; Freezing rain means indoor recess, but also the potential for a well-placed icicle. It’s so cold&nbsp; - maybe that's why it looks so small?&nbsp; Spring brings a lush backdrop of green leaves that somehow only highlights the situation. <img width="3072" height="4080" width_o="3072" height_o="4080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e2beb8a944c1434e820ef083baf506aa84a9381858605113d8209d63fb5f932f/Ptree1.jpg" data-mid="249318406" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/e2beb8a944c1434e820ef083baf506aa84a9381858605113d8209d63fb5f932f/Ptree1.jpg" /> Not all of my thoughts are funny.&nbsp; Some are thoughtful or wistful.&nbsp; Sometimes there’s no real thought at all beyond “Silly Penis Tree”.&nbsp; But, without fail, I feel lighter in that stairwell.&nbsp; In the few seconds it takes me to walk down those steps, something shifts.&nbsp; A small, perfect reset. I’m pretty sure that tree holds magic. &nbsp; Someday I’d love to come upon a squirrel perched on that bough.&nbsp; Or a bird’s nest tucked right into the bend.&nbsp; It feels like that might mean something - that I’d unlocked the final level, paid off some small, invisible debt to the universe. <img width="1085" height="1450" width_o="1085" height_o="1450" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c447fa87c2ed9a1a38639a6df437aa693397fbab03f894d828d86d8e52faf39e/Ptreewish.png" data-mid="249318404" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/c447fa87c2ed9a1a38639a6df437aa693397fbab03f894d828d86d8e52faf39e/Ptreewish.png" /> But for now, a few stolen seconds of bemused reflection is enough. Enough to breathe.&nbsp; Enough to reset.&nbsp; Enough to go back. I give Penis Tree a small nod and head downstairs. <img width="3072" height="4080" width_o="3072" height_o="4080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/744308fd20a2b0e3bd59206f9bcc26c927dd87e479a0522e566babcced3aed74/Ptree2.jpg" data-mid="249318407" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/744308fd20a2b0e3bd59206f9bcc26c927dd87e479a0522e566babcced3aed74/Ptree2.jpg" /> https://vernacularjournal.com/North-American-Tea-Leaves Wed, 10 Jun 2026 15:08:27 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/North-American-Tea-Leaves North American Tea Leaves Virginia Reebs <img width="480" height="640" width_o="480" height_o="640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/faa7cf7c258e8f87917819bfa5f961c682e2980fb6a69891757dd1ad337a1ea8/image0.jpeg" data-mid="249318384" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/480/i/faa7cf7c258e8f87917819bfa5f961c682e2980fb6a69891757dd1ad337a1ea8/image0.jpeg" /> The hermeneutics of fortune cookie horoscopes: Interpreting mass produced pieces of paper with poorly translated idioms (in both official languages!) in the hope of deriving some divine guidance, affirmation or motivation. https://vernacularjournal.com/Listing Thu, 11 Jun 2026 21:02:04 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/Listing ListingBrenna Kelly the daughter of a carpenter buys her first house she needs new doors (and windows, and a roof, and on it goes) the father, the daughter, the to-do list love is in the crossed off items (drill bits, kick board, LVL 8'x12") she sees herself in his handwriting he wonders when she got so grown <img width="1909" height="1906" width_o="1909" height_o="1906" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/69f48496edeba2e0bf74409c5ced4e227f695f595e9c13baa716d51b7c5395c7/listing.jpg" data-mid="249383112" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/69f48496edeba2e0bf74409c5ced4e227f695f595e9c13baa716d51b7c5395c7/listing.jpg" /> https://vernacularjournal.com/Dudo-surfer Thu, 11 Jun 2026 21:22:15 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/Dudo-surfer Dudo surfer Giulio R.M.Maffii Maffii adopts "serialism" in production: he always uses the same one subject (a young man with a surfboard, called Dudo) and presents it in infinite variations, as if he were the protagonist of dreamlike events. Its reproduction in each collage leads to the loss of the original meaning and places the subject in one dimension alienating. Everything seems simple but in reality the character is placed in the crisis of our society: it is never the same, at most a cloning. <img width="1944" height="2592" width_o="1944" height_o="2592" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b4aac4dd362787b6e9615855fe4ec05a6e961fdc371d0c12670a647abea43855/dudofolk.png" data-mid="249391556" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b4aac4dd362787b6e9615855fe4ec05a6e961fdc371d0c12670a647abea43855/dudofolk.png" /> <img width="3962" height="2962" width_o="3962" height_o="2962" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/200eae3fe28360814849bc6658eb5a5e176955a981020ebdbb89c5ff3e0bfa8e/dudo-3-pictures.jpg" data-mid="249391557" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/200eae3fe28360814849bc6658eb5a5e176955a981020ebdbb89c5ff3e0bfa8e/dudo-3-pictures.jpg" /> <img width="3967" height="2976" width_o="3967" height_o="2976" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e19b24d8b5e9f4e19b066646a00f2bac6be590f41d051b59fbf14c731884e989/dudo-teatro_.jpg" data-mid="249391558" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/e19b24d8b5e9f4e19b066646a00f2bac6be590f41d051b59fbf14c731884e989/dudo-teatro_.jpg" /> <img width="1638" height="2160" width_o="1638" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/19c286b7c06bbd0bd1a886511fcda1eaacc56df4db1233c45bdc056bd9a49c52/dudo-poseidon-and-other-bodies-mnl4l4lxnRu4rWkZ.jpg" data-mid="249391559" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/19c286b7c06bbd0bd1a886511fcda1eaacc56df4db1233c45bdc056bd9a49c52/dudo-poseidon-and-other-bodies-mnl4l4lxnRu4rWkZ.jpg" /> <img width="2458" height="2160" width_o="2458" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/17cfb6c1d10bd818ece0a6ab7aaa5346900d0d642db7359601b561bf5810fb3b/dudo-obla2-YyvDvDv1g7FNok04.jpg" data-mid="249391560" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/17cfb6c1d10bd818ece0a6ab7aaa5346900d0d642db7359601b561bf5810fb3b/dudo-obla2-YyvDvDv1g7FNok04.jpg" /> <img width="2160" height="2160" width_o="2160" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5821fa4f0ec6ef18498262b2792a6c633e18393a10c5e6645843ca5bb9d14edf/dudo-oblio-eyes-ZkwjsBldp6Vy63ae.jpg" data-mid="249391568" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5821fa4f0ec6ef18498262b2792a6c633e18393a10c5e6645843ca5bb9d14edf/dudo-oblio-eyes-ZkwjsBldp6Vy63ae.jpg" /> <img width="2804" height="2160" width_o="2804" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/17f971e3a23863b5ca1a8808534ebb7f4b2bfd9c0b71b1fd135c2d690e6468ac/dudpisa-mP43LGpEVQc3lk50.jpg" data-mid="249391561" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/17f971e3a23863b5ca1a8808534ebb7f4b2bfd9c0b71b1fd135c2d690e6468ac/dudpisa-mP43LGpEVQc3lk50.jpg" /> <img width="1698" height="2160" width_o="1698" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/8618dabe238b3149a347823ec7b1e05173f8df86210d44446fcda138f231d6f3/dudo-is-expected-in-the-room-dJoP0p4MVRcR4Rpj.jpg" data-mid="249391562" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/8618dabe238b3149a347823ec7b1e05173f8df86210d44446fcda138f231d6f3/dudo-is-expected-in-the-room-dJoP0p4MVRcR4Rpj.jpg" /> <img width="1620" height="2160" width_o="1620" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/de578b1850c293cf6bc8c918f7cff91981608c4a01e9dd2d5ae25cc2fb3f9142/dudo-in-the-glass-AoP417G9rKF7XK8y.jpg" data-mid="249391563" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/de578b1850c293cf6bc8c918f7cff91981608c4a01e9dd2d5ae25cc2fb3f9142/dudo-in-the-glass-AoP417G9rKF7XK8y.jpg" /> <img width="1583" height="2160" width_o="1583" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/325eaced16d371bf08d299747276e7f699b748f226594ac1f2920b0cd2139124/dudo-country-ALp2p2vBb0UeXQan.jpg" data-mid="249391564" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/325eaced16d371bf08d299747276e7f699b748f226594ac1f2920b0cd2139124/dudo-country-ALp2p2vBb0UeXQan.jpg" /> <img width="1552" height="2160" width_o="1552" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5ef34990faa59c4cd89a0e6e778c9c1f9b64d8df1108eec79470be03702be0d6/dudo-ice-bear-AVLx023G6PcpX9J3.jpg" data-mid="249391565" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5ef34990faa59c4cd89a0e6e778c9c1f9b64d8df1108eec79470be03702be0d6/dudo-ice-bear-AVLx023G6PcpX9J3.jpg" /> <img width="1440" height="2160" width_o="1440" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/56b2291db55c438db35a6ab5230024194903e0116b234c3e46fcff5817d367bb/dudohallway--AR01zQbqeZtxGBKo.jpg" data-mid="249391566" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/56b2291db55c438db35a6ab5230024194903e0116b234c3e46fcff5817d367bb/dudohallway--AR01zQbqeZtxGBKo.jpg" /> <img width="1621" height="2160" width_o="1621" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/77797ded9f1eda85e776f69e82d367fed24717036b7266e744f86e84dcd46c07/dudosnow-YrD4z4MzDpTeOxwR.jpg" data-mid="249391567" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/77797ded9f1eda85e776f69e82d367fed24717036b7266e744f86e84dcd46c07/dudosnow-YrD4z4MzDpTeOxwR.jpg" /> <img width="1619" height="2160" width_o="1619" height_o="2160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/817628f432d063e9d0d6d4c59baca94d65303297455641e6b6cdb5a9b8409151/dudo-umbrellas-y5CRfu2jal0kWhPT.jpg" data-mid="249391569" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/817628f432d063e9d0d6d4c59baca94d65303297455641e6b6cdb5a9b8409151/dudo-umbrellas-y5CRfu2jal0kWhPT.jpg" /> <img width="3921" height="6104" width_o="3921" height_o="6104" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0d0aeffa1b16c1c886c40ec6f14b4fce7c01fd1dd14ab7539b5a2a4dfae3dd3b/dudo-lattina.jpg" data-mid="249391570" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0d0aeffa1b16c1c886c40ec6f14b4fce7c01fd1dd14ab7539b5a2a4dfae3dd3b/dudo-lattina.jpg" /> https://vernacularjournal.com/A-Short-Anthem Thu, 11 Jun 2026 21:00:07 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/A-Short-Anthem A Short Anthem Susan Stiles In which I give thanks, to all taxi drivers who have given me a temporary home, through foreign cities and familiar ones, who have talked with me when I did not realize that a conversation was necessary, but somehow they did, who have told me their life stories in that space, an abridged confessional, who have spun through traffic on a golden tether, high above the streets, slowing down time, like that ride along the West Side Highway, depositing me, somehow, at the train station, somehow, before the hour, or the driver in Paris who understood my distress, at the end of the line, and the damn Metro shutting down so early, for such a cosmopolitan city, and on a weekend, too, and he could have taken any one of us stranded there, but he opened his door to me, and I trusted him, through unfamiliar streets with no lights to guide us, given that I lived on the edge of that city, at that time, and to all of the others, too, who have measured their lives, in their vehicles, like geographers of ancient times, notwithstanding, of course, the driver in Istanbul, who sped like fire, thinking he had the entire grand avenue, to himself, and only, in the last possible second, did he notice the parked car, in our path, and I, wedged in and pushed forward, in that awkward space between the two front seats, with my family all around, after a fine dinner and raki and watermelon, and my life flashed before my eyes, no, to him, only bregrudging thanks, as we skidded, somehow, into another lane, and then emerged, leaving a raft of city lights behind us. https://vernacularjournal.com/Cover-Story Thu, 11 Jun 2026 20:58:51 +0000 Vernacular Journal https://vernacularjournal.com/Cover-Story Cover Story C. Inanen I like Dave’s Diner in the Posen neighborhood of Chicago. I generally eat there once or twice a week. In this era of exotic 5-star restaurants with trendy themes and fake pub fast food places passing themselves off as restaurants it’s a breath of reality. Not that the food is all that good, although it’s filling and won’t make you sick or anything. They serve typical diner food, hamburgers, eggs, chili, open face sandwiches slathered with gravy, stuff like that. You want a fancy dessert? Chocolate cake, which may be a few days old, various fruit pies or ice cream are pretty much your choices. You want to go whole hog? Get the pie with ice cream. You see what I mean? It looks like what it is, too, a diner. One long counter with worn Formica and stainless steel trim lined with red vinyl stools, a couple of which wobble. Against the front windows running the whole length are booths that match. The cash register is by the door and yes, the waitresses really know how to make change. They wear light blue uniforms with modest length skirts. If you’re a regular like me they know your name. The whole thing is lit at night with fluorescent lighting. When I generally go in there after I get done playing 3 sets down the street at the Moonlight Lounge it’s a beacon in the night. If I go in there for breakfast the windows let the sunlight in. I don’t know when the place opened up but it’s a neighborhood landmark. Maybe it was during the 1940s. “Go down past Dave’s Diner and hang a right,” it’s a landmark like that. Most everybody in Posen knows where it’s at, off of 18th Street, even if they’ve never been in there. That’s one of the things I like about Chicago, it’s made up of neighborhoods. I mean, it’s a big city, don’t get me wrong, but it still has some of the advantages of a small-town sense of community. Posen isn’t the best and it isn’t the worst but for me, its home. I live a few streets over in a 3-story walkup. Larry Swetowski lives in the next building in a nearly identical place. Like me, he’s one of the night shifters. You’ve probably heard the expression “Our day begins when your day ends.” That fits Larry to a tee. He’s a City of Chicago police detective. Plainclothes, I don’t know if he’s working homicide or drugs or just what. But I do know something about him that most people don’t. He’s a transvestite, a TV. I’m not sure of the right words; he dresses like a woman sometimes. When he does he’s Laurie Sweet. It’s kind of funny, there’s a man in his building who thinks Larry and Laurie are married. I think it’s funny anyway. So does Larry, or Laurie, maybe both. We’re pretty good friends and he might be the smartest person I know. As Laurie he sometimes goes into Dave’s Diner late at night. And he’s stunning. Tall and blonde, elevated by heels with really good legs she catches the eye of most everyone when she does. We’ve gone out to dinner together other places too, and she does that wherever she goes. People turn and look at her, beautiful and immaculately made up, sometimes strangers will actually come up to her and ask if she’s a celebrity, maybe a TV reporter or something like that. So, I wasn’t surprised to see her at Dave’s Diner when I got off of work tonight. I was sort of surprised to see her sitting next to Carl, who’s another one of the night shifters. He drives a tow truck for Aaron’s Double-A Auto Body. Usually when I see him he’s dressed for work, like he was tonight. He runs their tow truck for night calls and works in the shop during the day. I don’t know how old he is, at least 21 since he comes in the Moonlight Lounge once in a while, but he’s definitely a lot younger than Laurie is. They were in animated conversation. I slid onto a stool at the counter, two seats from Laurie. “Hey Myra,” I greeted the waitress. “Hey Laurie, Carl” I nodded to them in greeting. “How’s it going, Walter?” Myra asked me by way of acknowledgement. “It’s done gone,” I told her. “Now I’m just picking up the pieces.” Small humor, small laugh. “Rough night tonight?” she asked. “It wasn’t bad,” I told her. “Just long. We had a table that didn’t want to leave.” Sometimes that can be a problem. Tonight since the people were pleasant it was more a nuisance than anything else. “They insisted on buying me a drink, which they had already done several times during the night; what I really wanted to do was go home. You know how it is.” Myra knew how it was. “Coffee?” she asked. I guess that was a formality since she had already poured it for me. “Yes please,” I told her. After she served it I cupped my hands around the heavy china mug. “You’re out late tonight,” I told Laurie. “That’s for sure,” she agreed. “It’ll be hell getting up in the morning. I’m on days this month.” It was a little past 3:00 AM. “Carl had to come rescue me. My car broke down out in Rosemont.” She made a face, summarizing her feelings about cars breaking down or having to get up for work in a few hours, or maybe about Rosemont. Whatever it was it seemed to sum up the situation. “It just stopped,” she said. “Lights went out, nothing worked on it, when I turn the key nothing happens. I pulled on the wires and so on but that didn’t make any difference.” “It probably isn’t anything serious,” Carl said. “You say. It’s a pain in my ass is what it is.” “We’ll look at it tomorrow.” “At least Carl’s going to drive me home.” “No problem,” he said. “Plus I got to see his car. That was pretty cool” “His car?” I repeated. He had his car parked out front. It was an older Toyota, nothing special. “Yeah, you haven’t seen it?” Carl said “Aww” He didn’t say “shucks” but he could have, it was that kind of aww. “It’s a Mustang, an old one. You wouldn’t believe what it looks like. He’s got about a bajillion coats of paint on it.” “Is a bajillion more or less than a kajillion?” “It’s more.” Laurie was definite about that. I leaned over the counter to look at Carl. He was smiling. Myra was standing there listening to our conversation. “What is it?” I asked him. “1970 Mustang, I’ve got 31 coats of clear on it over the blue metal flake.” I pictured that. “Sounds nice,” I told him. “That’s a lot of work.” He nodded agreement. “Hand sanded between each coat,” he added. “You should see it,” Laurie told me. I placed my order for a Salisbury steak dinner with lots and lots of grilled onions. That’s one of the advantages to living alone; you can eat lots of onions and not worry about your breath. “How’s the album coming?” Myra asked me. She was probably more excited about it than I was. “The album’s done,” I told her. She appeared pleased at the prospect. “When can I buy one?” “I’ll give you one,” I promised. “All recorded and sent off to the outfit in New Jersey that’s going to format it and master it and make it into CDs. I’m stumped on the cover art, though. I don’t know what to do. I’ve got the liner notes and track listing done but I’m stuck on the cover art. I’ll have the CDs in about 3 weeks but I can’t print the inserts until I figure out the art,” I explained. “What kind of album?” Carl asked. I leaned forward again to look at Carl. Laurie leaned backward to afford a clear view between us. When she did her chest was more prominent. That was distracting. “Rhythm and Blues, you’ve heard us. Blue eyed Soul music you could say. Heavy on the Wilson Pickett. It’s all cover versions of songs. We’ll have 900 of them made and sell them right there at the Moonlight Lounge.” We’re about at the level of a good garage band when it comes to the recording industry, at the very bottom. Maybe one step up from the bottom, at least we didn’t duplicate them ourselves. “Don't Knock My Love, Funky Broadway, In the Midnight Hour, which Pickett wrote.” I continued, “Land of 1000 Dances, 634-5789, Mustang Sally, some others.” “I can’t wait,” Myra said. “Cool,” Carl commented. “Interesting,” Laurie sounded thoughtful. “I didn’t know.” “Oh we’ve been working on it for about 6 months. Recording it live right at the Moonlight Lounge. We just record the whole set and if it doesn’t sound right we try it again the next night.” This might not be the most professional way to go about it, but it was effective. It gave the recordings a live sound of urgency with the crowd noises and so on. I was kind of pleased with it. So were the other guys. If we could really string together those songs in person the way they sounded on the recordings we wouldn’t be playing at the Moonlight Lounge. “What are you thinking for the cover art?” Laurie asked. “See, that’s where I’m stumped,” I told them. “The best I’ve come up with is our name across the top and then “Play Wilson Pickett” below that superimposed over a picket fence.” “Huh,” she said. “You can do better than that. That’s kind of bland. You want something that catches the eye. That’s what art does.” “I know.” “What about a picture of the band onstage?” Myra suggested. “Nah, I thought about that. Would you buy something with a picture of us on it?” We were four middle aged men, decent musicians but hardly attractive. “Sure,” she said. “If I’d heard you, which I have.” “Well you’re an exception,” I told her. “I want something special, something that would catch your eye if you saw it in a store or on a rack.” “Have you got a photographer and a budget?” Laurie asked me. Her voice had a thoughtful tone to it. “Yeah, actually we do. John Otum has a good photographer who’s really reasonable. He actually toured with a Rock band for a year so he understands cover art but he won’t suggest a specific idea. He’ll shoot it but won’t suggest one. He says that’s on us. I already talked to him.” “Carl’s Mustang,” Laurie suggested. “The band name in big letters followed by “Play Mustang&nbsp; Sally” in bold letters and a list of the other songs. That brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. I thought about the idea. “Put Laurie in the driver’s seat,” Carl added. “It would be unique and eye-catching. I’m willing,” she said. “Do it out front here,” Myra chimed in. “I can make sure the windows are clean and the parking lot is empty at least for a little while.” “Hey! People would like that,” I finally said. An idea was born. “How about it, Carl?” “Sure, of course.” We did it just that way. The Mustang was beautiful and being an old one it fit the songs. Laurie was beautiful too, with one long shapely leg extended out of the Mustang as if she was just getting out or getting in. It was shot from ground level so that was imposing. Up toward the top you could see “Dave’s Diner” in blue neon. Quite a few people who bought it remarked on the local touch, after all, the diner’s a landmark. Laurie, Carl, Myra and I all have framed prints of the photo hanging on our walls. It is uniquely Chicago.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;