an old writer and his words

  • HANGING BY A THREAD

    In Riga, my grandfather was a master tailor, the great and the rich would come to his shop some bringing bolts of fine cloth and others trusting him knowing that wools and silks were not beyond his reach. Even after they marked his home as that of the Jew, the Captain, who rode through the…

    Lou Faber

  • FOOTHILL ROAD

    In the hills that rise gently from the concrete valley two hawks play childlike, rising, falling in gentle circles, grazing the redwoods that reach up to stroke their breasts. To a visitor from the East New York, Tokyo there is awe at the hawks’ grace, slicing the sky into cloudy ribbons but there is no…

    Lou Faber

  • GODS ONCE

    The once gods have been reduced again to mere mortals and find the change disquieting. Just the other day I saw Hermes meandering along Fifth Avenue pausing to look at scarves in a window of a store he never imagined. Even the once great queen finds herself behaving like a love-struck teenager. One who bred…

    Lou Faber

  • NIGHT AT THE PUB

    It’s a fading memory now, a hole in the wall then, CBGB’s, loud, but nothing happening at Tommy Makem’s and here the cop and his pals play angry Irish with a foot in reggae and ska. I’m too old to be here, but no one really cares as long as I buy my Bushmills or…

    Lou Faber

  • THE SKY ABOVE

    Only in New York will you find a giraffe looking up at taller buildings and not thinking this the least bit strange. People always look up at buildings and it is never strange, but people know that giraffes must be different and their looking up is by its very nature strange. Giraffes look down at…

    Lou Faber

  • CITY OF FORGOTTEN

    The lake in Central Park and its cousin rivers reflect the gray of a cold sky, an April afternoon. None of this is seen by the multitudes traversing the streets and avenues, a people who barely remember the sky.

    Lou Faber