an old writer and his words

  • CAT (PSYCH)OLOGY

    It wasn’t until I hitmiddle age, which on my scalewill allow me to live past 100,that I discovered that catsare Celtic deep in their hearts.Our cat, she who adopted meand forced her then ownerto marry me, like it or not,was in love with the tin whistleand the uilleann pipes playinghad her in my lap, unmoving.But…

    Lou Faber

  • SUNDAY NIGHT

    It is almost midnight.If this was Seoul, the Hilton,I could walk down the hillto Namdaeman Marketand wander around the shopsthe smell of the city, of pigs headssimmering in giant caldrons,fish lying on beds of melting iceand look at silk and stainlessflatware, watches and celendoncasting its faint green glowin the fluorescent night,but it is Virginia and…

    Lou Faber

  • NAME IT

    Aunt Tzipporah hated her name,detested it really, came closer to the truth.“What the hell were my parents thinking?”she said, “like being Jewish in West Virginiaisn’t going to be hard enough.On a good day I got away with being Zippy,but you try spending your Junior year in high schoolhearing “Hey Zipper” or having some jerkcome up…

    Lou Faber

  • THE FUTURE HOLDS

    It should be more of a surprise,on this day that you turn ninetybut the mirror, as you see it,has you looking as you did twentytwo years earlier, and twentybefore that, unchanging in anymeaningful way, yet thosearound you laugh when youtell them what you believe. Not a day over sixty-eightyou say, and time to go offand…

    Lou Faber

  • ISAN’S SUMMONS 鐵笛倒吹 三十一

    When the mastercalls for a novicedo you answer?When the inkinbell is struckdo you beginor end zazen?As you follow your breathwhen do you leaveyour body, and whoreturns when you next inhale? Search insteadfor an answerthat has no question.Who is the novice now? A reflection on case 31 of the Iron Flute Koans

    Lou Faber

  • THE CLUB

    It’s jazz, it’s a club,but there what once wasis no more, there areno ashtrays on the table,overflowing early intothe second set, no cloudof cigarette smoke descendingfrom the too dark ceiling.There is no recognizable odorof a freshly lit Gaulloise,in the trembling fingers ofa young man trying to look cool,trying not to cough on eachinhalation, in the…

    Lou Faber

  • THE VILLAGE

    I’d like you to tell meabout the village in whichyou grew up, and how oddit must have been for youto have met my grandfatherso far from any villagein the heart of Lithuania.I suspect you leftwith your parents, exhaustedby pogroms, exhaustedby the Jewishnessthat to them defined you.I’d love to knowabout my mother whoI never got to…

    Lou Faber

  • PELICAN

    The pelican hasn’t been aroundfor a couple of days, and we misshis akimbo dives into the pond,surfacing and throwing his head backto show he’s swallowing his catcheven though we suspect some of the timehe caught nothing at all, but knowingwe’re as gullible an audienceas he is likely to find any time soon.We hope he is…

    Lou Faber

  • HAIL AND FAREWELL

    On very dreary daysI like to drive through the cemeterymeandering among the stonesuntil I find a freshly dug grave.I stop, under the vigilant eyeof the caretaker and carefully placea cassette of Dvorak’s Slavonic Dancesor Smetana’s Die Moldau into the player.As the melodies spill forthI hope they lift the spiritof the resting, bringing them a momentof…

    Lou Faber

  • NOT TWICE

    It is said that you can never go home againpresuming, of course, that you have left at some point.The fallacy of this statement is apparent,for there is often nothing preventing your return.What would make the statement accurateis that you can never go home againto exactly the same home you leftfor your leaving alters the place…

    Lou Faber