an old writer and his words

  • SEPPO’S TURNING THE WHEEL 正法眼蔵 三十八

    The wisest of men when asked “at what time it is best to pursue the Way,” will answer when a thousand stars have made their presence known. The wisest student will say “when cleaning myself by bathing in the mud.” This will become clear when the frog consumes the dragon. A reflection on Case 38…

    Lou Faber

  • HARLECH CASTLE

    stones speak in lost tongues to sheep grazing by the wall clouds gather laughing voices of dead kings echo off cloud shrouded hills she whispers in dreams a November wind cuts deeply across the keep distant hills crying slash of claymore glinting in the morning sun bird with wings unfolded moss encrusted stones remember long…

    Lou Faber

  • EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE

    He captured the stray beams of light in a small amber bottle and tucked it into a dark corner of a shelf in his basement. He canned a small bit of the sky, sealed it carefully, placing it in his pantry, for posterity. He stored his collection of dawns in and old cedar chest in…

    Lou Faber

  • DREAM ON, MY GOD

    Good night, Sisyphus try to get some sleep. It’s been a long day and you already know the rock will await you when you arise in the morning. I suppose by now you’ve come to realize there is no percentage in pissing off the Gods. Think of this as a personal re-education center where right…

    Lou Faber

  • RIVERS

    I have never been particularly one for rivers. Like everyone, I’ve walked along their shores, listened to them gurgle under remote bridges but otherwise never paid them much attention. There’s an old Buddhist saying you can’t step into the same river twice, but that presupposes you step into the river the first time. I remember…

    Lou Faber

  • DEMONS

    In the night there are no demons just the sound of your breathing soft, as your touch on my back, your foot against my calf.

    Lou Faber

  • ALLEGORY

    The sooty snow blankets the fields blowing like a still ocean off the precipice of the horizon. The clouds of ash tinged cotton hug the earth a blanket under which all life finds refuge from the ghosts of winter. To the wanderer which the cave mouth which the cave?

    Lou Faber

  • SEPPO’S WOODEN BALL 鐵笛倒吹 八十九

    The teacher rolls a wooden ball past the students seated around his feet. Will you pick it up and return it to him? The teacher rolls a wooden ball past the students seated around his feet. I sit still and let it pass. Which of us deserves the stick, which a silent smile. Buddha is…

    Lou Faber

  • SETTLING

    The old, weathered maple leans into the sun, its trunk stroking the cobbled cottage which sits against the foothill. The square window peers out over a wildflower garden as the roof’s peakline settles comfortably into old age. Walking around it I see the back roof has collapsed the back wall ever threatening to return to…

    Lou Faber

  • SUSHI

    We sit around the Tatami table thankful for the leg well redemption for aging knees, and socks without holes. We drink the sake warm and cold, and the Sapporo from the oversized bottles each pouring for the other as a proper host must. Several recall nights on Roppongi, or earlier on the Ginza, moments lucid…

    Lou Faber