Suffering for Art

Today we are going to a café for the launch of a poetry book. The author is one of my wife’s colleagues, and since the café is only about a ten or fifteen minute walk from our place, and because the weather has been so nice, we decided several weeks ago to attend the launch. It sounded like a good idea at the time. Hell, just last Saturday the temp got up to plus 17. With a ton of sun. Woohoo!

But then this happened:

It’s been snowing here now for about three days. We haven’t got anywhere near the dump of snow they’ve had, say, in the Maritimes here in Canada, or down south in Boston, but pain is relative (sort of) so I’m going to allow myself to whinge just a bit.

Aside from the snow, my other reason for consternation is my wife’s need/compulsion to walk fast. Faster than I normally walk. I like to dawdle and mosey and look this way and that. My wife, God bless her, goes from point A to point B with the single-minded efficiency of a German engineer. We’ve actually had some near fights over my ability to walk at a pace that even a toddler with gout might find ridiculous. I am often harangued and cajoled and, if it were socially acceptable, I have no doubt a stick would be used as an incentive.

One of my excuses is that if the zombie apocalypse happens while we are in transit, then my energy will be preserved for running. And as I tell my sweet wife, “I don’t have to run faster than the zombie, just faster than you.” Yeah, yeah, a fart in church and all that. I’m given a withering look and told quietly to “move my ass.” The quieter the voice and the more closed the mouth, the less room there is for my sparkling wit. How anyone could deny herself such an oasis on a cold, wintery day is beyond me.

So, in order to avoid my own small personal Trail of Broken Tears, I’m going to attempt to walk at a pace that we can all live with. And hopefully I can get to the poetry reading relatively unscathed and maybe even be inspired to do a bit of creating myself.

I am reminded once again that great art is almost always born out of some suffering.

• One Last Beer
• Maybe Regift?

Categories: Humour, Personal

Tags: Art, Marriage, Poetry, Walking, winter