The Summer Stench

There was a man at Whole Foods today who was constantly waving a magazine in the air, similar fashion to old ladies waving fans in the air when they're sitting in a hot church pew, or standing out in a park for some community event. Only there was an urgency in his intent. Something was clearly bothering him.
I spent a few minutes studying him, trying to figure out his motivation, his purpose for his fervent fanning. Was he really THAT overheated in the air conditioned throes of the Whole Foods? Or was there a smell that bothered him, something no one else could identify?
I stood behind him in line with my roommate at first. It was the shortest line, which was efficient for us since we were in a rush to return home with our to-be purchased treasures. My roommate was in closest proximity to this frustrated man, who began waving his magazine even more the closer we approached. Before it was too late, we decided to switch lines. We couldn't stand his rudeness.
However, I couldn't help but continue to observe how his behavior intensified. A line eventually had to form behind him, the naturally ebb and flow of Whole Foods customers needing to funnel somewhere. As more people surrounded him and encased him, his fanning became more frantic. A woman soon approached behind him, trying to communicate to a friend in the back of the line. Without regard for what his body language was communicating, he waved the magazine in her direction, as if redirecting her scent.

And I could only wonder, is he the insane one for having a distaste of everyone's smell, or could he possibly be in the right, detecting a despicable scent that has engulfed everyone else in the world without our own knowledge?

montpelier

hill of spices, vermont. ophelia on the rug, sleeping behind me. little angel/devil dog. little one who keeps me present, likes to play eat toadstools, spider webs, ants, earwigs. the heat wave has waved. this sunday all is cool. i have books on dog training open, a book about a man who grows up on a dude ranch, another book -- stories from pakistan: in other rooms, other wonders. in the house i live in there are floors of residence. first floor: mom, dad, baby. second floor, me. upper floors, divorced dad and sometimes sadie; upstairs fiances with dogs. behind us: an odd couple. i look out to a mountain, trees. there are cars. i don't like their noise.

having left the city what occurs? i set up a futon. i find bookcases at yardsales. people tell me the story of tables, chairs. some windows are cracked. too many times painted shut. montpelier is smallish, but there is warmth to the tone of voice, the way of greeting, how people stop on the street. a park in the hills, bark on trails. i am more quiet than i have been in months; i am familiar with this quiet, but i miss the spirl stairs in our classroom. i miss the excitement that breathes on new pages, the laughing, the suspended breath. i put myself together here, open boxes i haven't opened in years. discover what went missing in transit.

two years ago i was working with horses. now i train a great dane. there is something about animals that tends to me, to the desperate side, to the meek side. almost as if socializing, training me to be something else, a being who isn't quiet, a being who can handle chaos. a green ribbon on the table, sent to me. my writing friend april. we say we will try to make things, write things. so far this summer i've been quiet. now i venture. i try to say hello here. i begin again. soon i will return to the bubble piece. try again, try to have it say what i discover, the urgency, as april was saying, that i feel.

no people now. maybe a visit. maybe it's okay? to consider, continue? today i may swim in the dog river. i have heard of other great danes named rain and canoe. these are good names. i call ophelia oph or oaf for short. oaf, according to the oed, means fairy changling.