an old writer and his words

  • IN DREAMS

    Late in the night a train rolled by through the city, a few miles down the hill from here, its horn muted but still required at crossings. I know it appeared in my dreams, but I cannot tell if it was as the heron in flight over the lake, or the long bearded hiker with…

    Lou Faber

  • CZERNY IN HELL

    Mrs. Schwarting lived in a small cottage. Mrs. Schwarting taught piano in her living room. Mrs. Schwarting had no first name, even checks were to be made payable to “Mrs. Schwarting.” Mrs. Schwarting grew suddenly old, some said, to fully fit into her name, no one could remember her ever being young. Mrs. Schwarting said…

    Lou Faber

  • WHAT’S IN A

    He is fond of the name Alejandro Carlos Ernesto Rodrigo Guttierez. The fact is, he loves the name. He knows it has a certain nobility to it. It enbodies and conveys strengh and character. It is a source of pride and great satisfaction. The name makes him taller, bolder. There is so much in a…

    Lou Faber

  • TRUE MEASURE

    If you ask me the true measure of a passing moment, I will tell you it is at once invaluable, and by equal measure useless, lost in the detritus of time’s wave, now receded. Do not try and cling to it for your memory is all that is impermeable, and then only in a moment…

    Lou Faber

  • TWO SEASONS (CINQUAIN)

    It came without warning and much to our surpise settled in for a long visit — Summer Winter’s slow departure leaves us frozen in rage at Spring’s reluctance to appear — again

    Lou Faber

  • CORSO

    When my back was turned, Corso slipped away somewhere in Wisconsin silently, without protest carried off by Charon across a gasoline river. There was no bomb to announce his departure, no Queens orphanage stopped frozen in a silent moment. In the small park at the north end of Salt Lake City no one lifted a…

    Lou Faber

  • ISAN’S TIME 鐵笛倒吹 十六

    A cold day — how many other winters can you remember, how many future winters can your mind grasp? Can you hold yesterday in the palm of your hand can you wrap tomorrow around your thumb? Between the palms in gassho lies all life and being. A reflection on case 10 of the Iron Flute.

    Lou Faber

  • FROM THE BEGINNING

    Pangu* came by for a visit the other night. He tends to drop by uninvited. “Hate to call ahead,” he says, “it ruins the surprise.” He’s aged a bit since the last visit, and I told him he looked different. “It’s just a look. It’s the same old me, but I tend to scare people. So…

    Lou Faber

  • A QUESTION, AN ANSWER

    What is there in a yawn that has time inexorably slow, flattening notes by some unknown but ever constant fraction of a tone, so that it lingers painfully before proceeding? A moment locked in place, frozen like Schrodinger’s cat before observation.

    Lou Faber

  • AWAITING THE WAVES

    “Describe yourself,” she said “that I might capture you if only for this moment a footprint left once you have departed this place and time.” I am, I should think, biologically plausible though straining the bounds of reason once and again. I tend to philosophic androgyny hovering on the fulcrum of paradox. I am the…

    Lou Faber