from the desk of Lucian Orfeo

in bocca al lupo

[lucianorfeo]

nottivago (night wandering)

Some words are inherently associated with poetic language. Ephemeral. Bucolic. Labyrinthine. Mellifluous. It’s possible to hear them in everyday conversations, but you’re more likely to run into them while reading Shakespeare or studying for a standardized test. They’re artistic, evocative, and specific. The Italian nottivago is one such word. Now, there is no perfect English translation of nottivago so, before I define it, let me provide a few examples of how the word is used:

Have you ever watched a time-lapse video where stars seem to sail across the night sky? Those stars are nottivago (le stelle nottivaghe).

Have you ever been scared, or seen someone get scared, by a bat suddenly flying out of the darkness? That bat is nottivago (il pipistrello nottivago).

Have you encountered either a spirit or a strong breeze floating through a haunted house in the middle of the night? Whether it was a ghost or the wind, both are nottivago (il fantasma nottivago o il vento nottivago).

Do you often stay up late for no particular reason? You might be un nottivago.

Nottivago means “of something that something wanders at night” or “a night-roamer.” Though it comes from the Latin word, noctivagus, it’s literally just the words for night (notte) and wandering (vagante) smashed together. Interestingly, the word is heavily tied to mythology and astronomy. Nottivago has been used to describe both the followers of Dionysus and the Chariot of Apollo as well as various constellations and comets. These associations provide the word with an otherworldly, distant, almost supernatural connotation – a bit like the English word “celestial.”

It's most common to see nottivago used as an adjective, but it’s also a noun for a person, animal, etc. who leads a kind of hazy, nocturnal lifestyle. However, the word nottambulo (nightwalker) is a better translation for the terms night owl or nighthawk.

So, let's say an Italian asked you the cliché “early bird or night owl” question. Even though nottambulo is the more traditional answer, you could respond with nottivago as well. The only issue with nottivago is that some Italians use nottivago as a euphemism for a prostitute and, while that’s totally fine and needs to be destigmatized, it’s not normally how people respond to the original question. 

Allora, until we meet again, in bocca al lupo.

Sources | 1 | 2 |

[lucianorfeo]

Local Vigilante, Jack Horner, Accused of Murder

by Jacob Grimm   4/9/2021 | 8:24pm  

Polarizing local youth, Jack Horner, may have finally gone too far with this newest criminal offense that’s been attributed to him. Murder. Specifically, Horner has been connected to the sudden and violent death of Mr. G. Blunderbore, now-former CEO of Golden Goose Industries.

A Golden Goose employee, referred to as Ms. Harp, called emergency services at 11:38 Thursday evening claiming to have found her boss, the tech giant, dead in his high-rise apartment. Coroners declared Mr. Blunderbore dead on arrival, but a cause of death has not been released at this time. The CEO’s apartment was found in a state of disarray with many valuable objects missing. Among the stolen items are several priceless Fabergé eggs and Mr. Blunderbore’s pet bird.

Chief of Police, Dick Wolf, said, “the apartment is on the 25th floor of the building and, as far as we’ve determined, the only viable entrance or exit would have been the window. But we’ve found no evidence to suggest that climbing equipment was used. The only unusual thing found at the crime scene was a massive crater filled with traces of plant matter. This mysterious crater has destroyed the road and sidewalks directly below the deceased’s window. We aren’t sure yet, but it seems likely this crater is somehow connected to Mr. Blunderbore’s death.” When asked if Horner was a suspect, Wolf stated, “we are not ruling out anything at this point in time, but the idea that Mr. Horner, or any human really, would be able to carry out this crime is improbable at best.”

Wolf’s assessment stands in staunch opposition to Harp’s witness testimony. In a statement she gave to the police she claimed, “I saw Jack kill my boss. I swear on everything holy. I saw that [dork] kill him before escaping out the window down this huge [freaking] plant!”

Harp was admitted to a psychiatric facility a few hours after giving that testimony and has refused to comment further on her experience. Harp’s physician did have this to say on the matter, “I suppose it is coincidental that plant remains were found at the scene. Whether this is connected to the crime or a random observation which helped Ms. Harp construct her delusion is impossible for me to say. I’m just a doctor.”

Members of the community have been very vocal in their support or condemnation of the accused. One individual (@motherhubbard) took to Twitter saying, “I cannot believe the cops aren’t arresting Jack. The longer this mad child goes unchecked, the more foolish he makes them look.” Another user (@guessmyname) fired back saying, “no! whats mad is that the government has allowed commercial giants to grow unchecked for so long that we need a vigilante to break up their monopoly.” The hashtag #IStandWithJack has been trending since the report’s release though netizens continue to call for his arrest. Horner has not yet been found for questioning but took to Twitter to send out this cryptic message, “I’ve bean framed.”

Further information will be released as this strange case develops. Anyone with information concerning Jack Horner’s whereabouts, the location of the missing items, or the mysterious crater filled with plant matter, should contact Chief Wolf and his team immediately.

[lucianorfeo]

The Gin Man

“Five dollars,” he responded.

I stared down at him utterly flabbergasted.

“Five dollars. Really? That is your request?”

“Yep.” He extended his palm towards me in the universal sign for “gimme.”

Instinctively, my hands rose to my face, vainly trying to massage the anger out of my expression. What was wrong with this idiot? A low groan escaped from my gut and formed an exasperated, “why?”

The fool’s posture collapsed briefly, but he was quick to overcorrect. He puffed out his chest like a street pigeon defending its honor. A gentle flush spreading across his face was the only thing betraying his embarrassment. He rose onto his toes ever so slightly to lessen our height difference and cleared his throat.

“Well, my good sir, for your esteemed information, earlier this morning I happened upon a ham and cheese sandwich. This sandwich, mind you, looked most delicious. One could even describe it as yummy. So yummy, in fact, that since then I haven’t been able to focus on much else. But, a lass! Unfortunately, I was prevented from purchasing it since I had no money. Thusly, my first wish is for five dollars. These five dollars I will henceforth use to finally buy the before mentioned sandwich.”

He was bathing in self-satisfaction, grasping the strings of his hoodie like a Victorian gentleman adjusting suspenders.

“Okay, but I’m still having a hard time understanding this. You rub my lamp, summon me to this filthy warehouse, I offer you a taste of my infinite power, and your first wish is for a measly five dollars?”

His brows furrowed. The fool bit his bottom lip and cocked his head like a puppy. “No, I don’t want sick money just normal dollars, please. Besides that, you’ve got everything right. Or, actually, no. I wouldn’t say I was rubbing your lamp. It would be more accurate to say I was hitting your lamp and shaking it upside down because - and can I be honest?” I knew he would be even if I protested. “I thought that lamp thing was like some weird old lady’s piggy bank and I was just looking for cash. But I’m not complaining, this works just as well for getting my lunch money.”

I gave up. Logic and sense clearly didn’t apply to a human like him. At least, not in any way I understood. His sweaty hand was once more thrust in my direction and, with a dismissive flick of my own, a crisp five-dollar bill appeared in his palm.

“Holy shit! Thanks, dude!” He turned, eyes glued to that trivial slip of paper, and started for the door.

“Wait, stop!” I shouted. I’m not sure why, but my voice sounded more panicked than furious. “Where are you going?” This fool was not about to walk out on me.

“To the vending machine.”

“Vending machine? You f-” I choked on my rage. It might not have been as aggravating if this sandwich he was so obsessed with came from a nice restaurant, an artisan deli, or even a cafeteria. But no. It was from a fucking vending machine.

“Hey, relax, gin man,” the fool threw a charming smile in my direction. “I plan on getting you something if I have any money left. I don’t know what the sandwich costs but I’m sure it’s not too much. What do you want? Candy? Chips? One of those weird nut mixes?”

I could feel my brows knitting together. There was no reason why he should do such a thing. He had nothing to gain from using his money to buy me something. Still, he seemed oddly sincere. “You’d really do that?”

He snorted. “Yeah, dude, of course.”

“For me?”

He nodded emphatically.

“Why?”

He shrugged, lips and brows briefly contorting into a goofy expression. It was annoyingly endearing.

“Well,” my eyes were darting about the room, wanting to look at anything but him. “As long as it’s no trouble… I guess I wouldn’t mind some Cool Ranch Doritos.”

“Oh, for sure! You’re a Cool Ranch guy? I would’ve guessed Nacho Cheese!”

“Yeah, I guess I can see why,” this time it was my turn to blush. I quickly turned away from the man, “I’ve been told I’m hard to understand.”

[lucianorfeo]

in bocca al lupo

The Italian language is beautiful, evocative, melodic, and very regional. So, to celebrate it, I thought I’d share a few of my favorite words and phrases with you.

Today, let’s talk about what is possibly my favorite phrase, in bocca al lupo!

If you type this phrase into a translator you’d probably get “good luck.” This is a fair translation, but it fails to convey the superstitious and light-heartedly macabre nature of the phrase.

Literally, in bocca al lupo means “into the wolf’s mouth.” It’s similar to the English “break a leg,” the French “merde,” etc. The general idea behind all these phrases is that wishing someone “good luck” jinxes them and causes bad luck; so, to bring about good luck, you wish for something bad. In bocca al lupo insinuates that the target of the blessing is venturing into the unknown, not knowing what trials lie in wait and they’re symbolically walking into the waiting, open mouth of a hungry wolf.

It’s often said by theatre people or when someone faces a daunting task (an exam, interview, competition, etc.), but it’s also fine to use in daily parlance.

There are two common responses. First, crepi il lupo! (literally, “may the wolf die!”) alongside its popular truncated form crepi! The second is simply grazie! (thank you).

Now, whether it’s acceptable to say thank you after someone wishes you in bocca al lupo is a matter of contention. Many Italians agree that responding with grazie counteracts the fortunate effects of the phrase, bringing bad luck instead. However, some people - like my Roman nonna - think meeting a wolf is actually a good thing. As my nonna explains, wolves carry their children in their mouths and wolves of legend aren’t always bad (e.g., Romulus and Remus were raised by a wolf). So, finding your way into a wolf’s mouth might not be as bad a fate as it originally sounds. There’s even a third response born from this interpretation, evviva il lupo! (“long live the wolf”).

In the end, how you respond is a matter of preference and interpretation. Just be warned that if you choose to say grazie, you might receive a few worried looks from those around you.

               For me, I understand my nonna’s point and I love wolves, but it’s just more fun to say crepi.

So, next time you want to wish someone luck, give this lovely phrase a try. 

Allora, until we meet again, in bocca al lupo.

[mosspajamas]

Let’s play a game, shall we?

follow these links, in order, to build yourself 1 2 3

then tag what you got

[lucianorfeo]

[the-evil-clergyman]

Perseus & Andromeda by Frederic Leighton (1891)

[lucianorfeo]

An absolutely beautiful painting, but did you know that Andromeda was likely a black woman? 

[lucianorfeo]

I have a problem.

I cut my hand this morning. Badly. But that’s not my problem so I’ll spare you the gory details.

I was sitting in the car on the way to urgent care, clutching my hand to my chest, and weeping. Yet, it was not the pain that had reduced me to tears, it was the crippling anxiety which accompanied it.

…Will I be able to use my hand today? Probably not. Shit, if I can’t use my hand how will I be able to type? I have a 10-page draft due today. If I can’t turn it in on time, what will happen? Will I fail all my classes if I start to fall behind? Why did I have to do this today? Any other day would have been fine. Why today? Ah, fuck. What if this gets infected? What if I get sepsis? Could I lose my hand? How would that affect my life? What actually is sepsis?...

Misery was haunting me in advance. This went on and on, getting more absurd and upsetting as it continued. I know that these pernicious thoughts were irrational. I realized it then too. But that didn’t stop fears from assaulting my consciousness with a cruel fervor.

We arrived. I went in. My hand was glued together. I left. We went home.

My hand is fine, like I said, it’s not the problem. Sure, it hurts like Hell and it does make typing a rather arduous task, but it will heal.

This was not a novel experience. Over the years despair has somehow become a standard response for me. It’s not healthy. It’s not enjoyable. It’s not productive. It’s no way to live.

It’s also not constant, I only panic in – if I’m being honest with myself – rather trivial and ultimately harmless situations. It doesn’t make any sense.

True story: a few years ago, my father and I went on a camping trip to Northern Ontario. There was an outhouse behind a cabin we stayed at and one evening, when I was alone at the site, I went out to use it. I passed the corner of the building to realize that on my left standing there, within two meters of myself, was an adult black bear. I stopped, we looked each other in the eyes, and – fortunately - when we both ran, we went in opposite directions. Here’s the thing: I can confidently say that I was far more at ease in that moment than I was this morning.

How is it possible that not finishing my homework is more frightening to me than a fucking black bear?

I have to stop this destructive cycle. I owe it to myself. But how do I go about fixing something that I can’t comprehend yet?

Maybe by examining what actually happened in place of the miseries my mind predicted. Yeah, I can’t type well but I emailed my professor, and they were very understanding. My wound was clean, and the doctor said it should heal with no issue. I don’t have sepsis (though I still haven’t googled it), and overall, everything is okay. In time, all that will remain is a scar.

In the end, I had nothing to worry about.

So, if you’ve somehow made it to the end of this and you’ve ever felt like I did, I hope perhaps you can learn from my experience (who knows if I actually will) and that the next time you begin to panic you try to remind yourself that it’s equally as likely for you to end up fine. Or, that you at least know you’re not alone, that others feel the same way you do, and that it’s okay to open up and ask for help if you need it.

Problems are problems because they have solutions. It might be difficult to find an answer, but it’s out there somewhere and there’s no shame in asking for help looking for it.

And, hey.

At least it’s not a black bear.

(unless it is a black bear, in which case… in bocca al lupo all’orso)

[etherdreamsmag]

Art of “ Lasse Erkola ”

[metropolis2089]

S H O P P I N G   I N   N E O   T O K Y O

[the-wolf-and-moon]

Mount Etna, Fire and Stars

[siir-poesia]

Honesty is an exotic flower in the desert of humanity…

siir-poesia © (via siir-poesia)

[retropopcult]

“New York City views. Plaza buildings from Central Park."  Photographed winter 1932.

[requiem-on-water]

“A cold evening, a clear night and a frost; then comes dawn, and fog. Rain starts to fall in the early dark, and the fog is granular, moving in the air. The smell is green and sharp, the earthy scent distincts as rain falls. It feels so good to escape into this serene, solemn world of perpetual transition.”