an old writer and his words

  • TS’UI YEN’S EYEBROWS

    The question is a simple one, really, but not one you were expecting, which is why you sit and grapple for an answer. Ask yourself, what if no answer is needed, what if there is no answer, can you remain silent, or will you feel somehow incomplete if you do not respond? All answers are…

    Lou Faber

  • PLACES

    My mother, the goddess of cliches, was overly fond of repeating that “There’s a place for everything, and everything should be in its place.” I must admit that, in addition to hating her cliches and platitudes, I grew ever less certain of my place in her world. She was more than willing to assume my…

    Lou Faber

  • FOR RENE

    What is inconceivable about the universe is that it should be at all conceivable. — A. Einstein Cogito dice clatter against a corner of the universe, rolling the bones of a thousand generations ergo one slides into the black hole void a loser next player to the line sum boxcars stacked as cordwood the snake…

    Lou Faber

  • KINKA’S ANCIENT MIRROR

    A river may rub a stone until it reflects the morning sun. A jeweler may polish it and facet it until it shatters the light in ten directions. A wise man knows it is still the same stone.   A reflection on Shobogenzo Case 117

    Lou Faber

  • SEKITO’S GREAT AND SMALL CANON

    This wave touches the shore just as it should. That wave touches the shore just as it should. You may wait an eternity for a wave that touches just not as it should, just as it should not, or you can sit and let the waves wash over you.   A reflection on Case 53…

    Lou Faber

  • ETERNITY

    In a clockless world all life is an approximation and clear boundaries evaporate like the mist off a morning pond. In that world, this moment seeps into the next, night becomes day, only to return again. The Buddha knew this, for in his clockless world all that existed was the moment, an instant that was, as…

    Lou Faber

  • ALBERT AND I

    Time folds in on itself, the arrow bends, grows recursive we lapse slowly backward slipping into a protean state. Our universe is neatly bisected, the inner workings laid open showing craftsmanship far beyond our meager comprehension, as we cling to the surface, fear sliding deep into its depth, spiral freely in infinite progression, slowing, approaching…

    Lou Faber