Ombre del Hombre

I am Ombre del Hombre.

I am collector.  I collect.  A satin bowerbird with a nest full of spiraled aluminum, easter grass, and snack baggies.  I collect and collect and collect and still the nest is empty.  Why?  Only I can know.

I am collector and I collect.

I collect stories; I decorate my abode with them.  I laminate them and hang them before the windows so that sunshine catches the words and they dance in awkward shadows on the opposite wall.  I paste poetry into cookbooks in cut-ups that would make William Burroughs jitter with jealousy and then I make souffle.e.’s out of eggs that I carry from the grocer (I carry them always in my heart)I am never without [them].

Some would say that I hoard.

I say I collect.  I say I curate.  I say I categorize and catalogue.  (I say those words.  I said and said and said those words.  I said them.  But I lied them.)

No matter.

I will say them again.

I am collector.

My name, Ombre del Hombre.

I sit nights as the world turns its huddled back to the stars.  I sit and sprawl my arms wide to them, collect their light and scrawl it across the dappled bird baths and gutter slop and puddles of mud.  All things shine and laugh if only for a moment.

I collect and gather.  My arms spread like those of my overgrown willow – slouched and weedy, it collects kites from the neighborhood.  They hang and dangle until their shreds disappear amidst the leaves above and the loam below.  I collect and gather except, instead of kites, I pull in stories.  Some of them wind up here.

Right.

Here.

From friends.  From strangers in midnight cafes.

All right here.

To see the personal sketches of those friends (and of those strangers in midnight cafes), see The Collected.  I have pinned them there – their sketches, that is – and they shimmer (as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen).   Did I say I collect?

I am Ombre del Hombre.