an old writer and his words

  • ACT 1

    His life was a collapsing theaterof the absurd and he was holding on tightlybut it was slipping through his fingers.It was not supposed to be this way,this was not the play he envisioned, yethe was here, in a cold table read, andnone of the assembled were certain wherethe evolving script might take them.He had imagined…

    Lou Faber

  • STRANGE BEAUTY

    There is a strange beautyin the slow loss of sight,for there is a progressivetransition, a discoveryof much that went unheard,unfelt, missing in the glareof the need to see, to categorizeand organize, memoriesneatly arranged in an arrayof curated visual files. But without sight what oncewas cast aside as noise isan intricate tapestry of soundand undistracted, you…

    Lou Faber

  • BIG ISLAND

    It is his hands you notice first – dark fingers bent and gnarled, several banded in silver, knuckles scratched by the cat curled at his feet, the tip of his index finger sacrificed to a distraction and the saw, untrimmed nails, rough, ragged a torn cuticle, liver spot rubbed raw. The fingers curl gently around the…

    Lou Faber