The Collector Of Everything Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

The Collector of Everything

He sits at his desk and foments stories about his life that when they happened had no meaning. But every day that passes he considers the unintended historical ramifications. For instance he reads the headlines of The New Yorker of today and finds gossamer filaments tethered to his own life. For instance how uncanny that there's a story about Nabokov and his collecting butterflies when he was younger than 5. The uncanny thing about it is that the man himself collected rocks at about the same age and just a few weeks ago created a large series of artworks in collaboration with the dead famous author. And not only did he collect rocks mind you but live critters he'd stuff live in glass jars. And postage stamps. As a matter of fact that's how he learned geography. For the rest of his life he can draw the map of the world almost by heart with the location of every capital. Of course he learned the entomological processes from his parent's friend, a reputable well-known Russian entomologist Vladimir Smirnoff who left Morocco to magnify his glory in Canada. But before he did that he took me on Saharan excursions where late in the evening hours after the sunset he'd have me help him stretch a large white sheet in the middle of a field. He'd position in its middle a kerosene lamp and within minutes the sheet would be loaded with squirming bugs he'd taught me to collect inside jars filled with dry block of gassy stuff that would kill the bugs without harming their carapaces. I mean we had to impel them with long pins with round heads. And, yep, that guy was related to the Vodka guy. Now of course I have become a collector of everything. I figured long ago life is a stage and my numerous hobbies among which is photography required me to collect props that I could use for setting up scenarios of anything. Then further down there's this story titled Just Like Children Leading Normal Lives, a story about Gypsy Rose Lee or it could be about me. I mean I traveled even more she ever did. Then there is this article Giants at the Bar about the only reporter South of the Dixie and Mason line that never drank. Well, he definitely wasn't Hemingway in that case. To top it all there's this article about Pilgrimage, about all the travels by famous dead people. I mean give me a break. Dead people! So here I am well and alive collecting all these stories but only virtually and try to find points of commonalities between fame and oblivion.