earthmann

“The perception of beauty is a moral test.” -Thoreau

I settled in front of my trusty external frame backpack and begin to methodically, carefully fill it with rolls of clothes, filling the empty nooks with precious goods: the steak knife, the cork from that bottle of Chianti, a crumpled pack of Galois Bleus, those cheap disposable razors, my tattered Bible, and such.

I extinguished my cigarette, pressing the hot yellow butt into ground, burning a neat hole through the plastic floor of the tent.

I thought of taking the knife and cutting out the tent’s entire floor. I’d like to see the two of them shagging there then, slapping against the wet mud, arousing the interests of the German beetles and army ants that inhabit the underworld of the Thalkirchen Campingplatz.

Being out-numbered, tempered with fear, I resisted disemboweling the tent.

As I crawled from the tent, I could see, in the corner of my eye, a mass huddled around a camp fire, eight Irish blokes still sloshing Spaten even as the sun broke clear of the Eastern tree line. I could feel their moonshine eyes considering the final demise of the village demon, at last exorcised. If Isabel was among them, I could not make her out from the other blurry, flickering silhouettes, at least not without turning my head.

I strapped on my backpack, slung my broken-zipper sleeping bag over my shoulder, and started off, cool as I could, heading for the trail that leads to the river. Then, I walked the path that ran along the bank, through the forest, towards the Wawirtschaft Biergarten.

In the eye of a storm, I walked along with all my life at my back, on my back, hanging on my shoulders.

Slowly, the gray skies won over the clear morning sun,
The horizon stayed orange, but the clouds above gently defied and a soft rain fell, plucking the slow river, marking concentric circles that expanded on the water before disappearing into the current.

I observed the drizzle from beneath the eave of the forest's canopy, the branches stretching towards the sky like twisted roots towards an old river.

I walked along, considering the pain of losing my first love, and the rain against the dawn, and the river through the forest.

Never had I mourned a greater loss, and yet even this blind fool knew that moment was beautiful. Damned. Beautiful. Alive.

Soon, though, I’d forget this take. For, the storm soon blew me from its eye, and I found shelter in the Biergarten, washing dishes for minimum wage, room, and board.