an old writer and his words

  • HAVING WRIT, MOVED ON

    She says she sees the whole book in her head before she kills it putting pen to paper. It is there, she says where it dies immovable on the page. I invite the words onto the page as well and hope they take a life of their own expressing my intentions if not my thoughts…

    Lou Faber

  • BROKEN VOW

    Then there are the days when the promise to write hangs over me like a curse, when the words are just loose associations of almost random letters and they deny, defy real meaning. It is on this day where, when all is set on the page, I move slowly on leaving this behind.

    Lou Faber

  • AN INKLING

      He says he has discovered that the best way for him to write is to ignore the pen totally, to just let it lie on the desk doing nothing. It should be in close proximity to paper, for pens need that to complete their existence or at least to give them purpose to go…

    Lou Faber

  • NOTA BENE

    Sometime this week you will get a note. You will not know who it is from, and you won’t be at all certain just what it is supposed to mean, but you will carefully fold it, place it in your pocket and later put it in a safe place along with all the other notes…

    Lou Faber

  • ON WRITING

      All too often it is just a matter of tossing words into the air and wondering where, or even if, they land, and if they do, what we will find when they finally settle on the paper.

    Lou Faber

  • TREACHERY

    René Magritte was born and died in Belgium, neither happened on this day, but he painted a most realistic picture of a pipe, which he captioned “Ceci N’est Pas Une Pipe,” which of course it was not since it was only a picture of a pipe and he entitled the work The Treachery of Images.…

    Lou Faber

  • MINDFUL (THREE HAIKU)

    the bell rings three times outside the birds fall silent all sitting zazen clocks come to a stop time no longer has meaning in meditation apple blossoms fall covering the ground in pink promising summer

    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