an old writer and his words

  • ON LEARNING PAINFULLY

    I cannot begin to tell youhow glad I am that I neverfollowed through on the ideaof flying to Lisbon and searchingfor you or some record of you.After all, she told the adoptionagency when she gave me upthat you were a Portuguese Jewshe met in Washington, D.C.so the odds were good you couldbe found in the…

    Lou Faber

  • WANDERING NO MORE

    In my dreams I wanderedthe alleys of Lisbon searchingfor a familiar face, and manycame close, but no man stopped meand asked if I was, by chancehis son, for he dreamed Iwas what a son of hiswould look like. Now I have no need to wanderfor I know he is ina military cemeteryin Burlington, New Jersey,and…

    Lou Faber

  • WRITING MY STORY

    With the stroke of a pen,they enabled me to write the story,gave a framework on whichI could hang all mannerof dreams and assumptions,inviting a search I neverquite got around to making. I wandered the beachesof Estoril in my dreams,stalked the avenues of Lisbon,looking for a familiar face,but found only ghosts. With the stroke of a…

    Lou Faber

  • FINDING

    Even when I was briefly in Edinburgh I dreamed of walking the streets of Lisbon or Porto looking into the faces of older men and wondering if this one was my father. the father I had never seen, never known. Was the one my Jewish mother described in detail to the social worker who took…

    Lou Faber

  • UNKNOWING

    I don’t know what                                                I am, the Buddha said. I don’t know why                                      …

    Lou Faber

  • DACHAIGH

    Even when I was briefly in Edinburgh I dreamed of walking the streets of Lisbon or Porto, looking into the faces of older men and wondering if this one was my father, the one I had never seen, never known. the one my Jewish mother described in detail to the social worker who took me…

    Lou Faber

  • THE FACT OF ADOPTION

    The fado fades under the weight of the Highland pipes and dreams of Cascais fade into the Scottish sky. Where once I thought of wandering Lisbon looking for my face, I imagine I see it in the Grampians, reflected off the lochs whose headwaters now feed my dreams. One joy of being adopted is that…

    Lou Faber

  • ADOPTING A NEW SELF

    At some level, he always knew. It was what he hoped, but he had given up hope. He was glad when he was Portuguese, imagined himself on the beach at Estoril or Cascais. Imagination was free and unfettered, and he was a bronze god in those dreams, chiseled of flesh, wanted by all. You don’t…

    Lou Faber