an old writer and his words

  • ARRIVAL

    Twisted strands tell a strange story – acid, a trip you never intended to take – amino pairs that walk you into a world that is yours alone and universal, a foreign place you now must call home.

    Lou Faber

  • ADOPTING A NEW SELF

    At some level, he always knew. It was what he hoped, but he had given up hope. He was glad when he was Portuguese, imagined himself on the beach at Estoril or Cascais. Imagination was free and unfettered, and he was a bronze god in those dreams, chiseled of flesh, wanted by all. You don’t…

    Lou Faber

  • GENETIC DREAMS

    The hardest part, surprisingly, is finding that one odd thread where you least expected, and following it back until it merges with another, and another still until you recognize that it is a weft, and the warp slowly becomes more apparent. Still it is nothing but carefully interwoven threads until you allow yourself to step…

    Lou Faber

  • ORPHAN

    I was a foundling wandering from Guinness Stout to Ouzo and back, in search of identity. In Schul I would cry out to Him asking, “Who am I?” and He would answer, “you are, you are.” The balalaika of my mother’s grandfather sounded tinny, a cacophony lost in Oporto, Lisboa. On the streets of Vienna…

    Lou Faber

  • AKEDA

    My father never walked me up a hill, never asked two servants to wait below, never bid me be strong, never asked me to have faith in the Lord, never raised the blade only to see a ram in a thicket. My father never did any of these things and so I have no special…

    Lou Faber

  • UNKNOWING

    I don’t know what                         I am, the Buddha said. I don’t know why                         my mother gave me up at birth                         or how many cousins walk                                     the streets of Glasgow                         or where I lost my first tooth I don’t know what                         became of the nickel                         or why the tooth fairy…

    Lou Faber

  • REFLECTIONS ON A FATHER NEVER KNOWN

    The sun is obscured by half-lidded eyes.  We are standing together on a small beach.  Twenty toes are curled in the wave packed sand.  We are in Cascais, or perhaps Estoril. The waves spread their foam capped fingers through the rocks and cradle us.  He wants to drive down the coast, to see the boats…

    Lou Faber

  • TRIPTYCH

    A triptych hangs in the gallery of memory.  Admission is by invitation only. The first panel is a time fogged mirror into which I stare.  The adopted image hides behind the tarnished silver.  My adopted mother’s voice is heard from a hidden speaker: “You were named after my father.”  I want to tape his picture…

    Lou Faber

  • TRICKSTER

    “Coyote is always out there waiting, and Coyote is always hungry.”  — Navajo Saying

    Lou Faber