what I was really thinking on the night I went to see Toni Nardi's 'Letter Two' show

Do I dare not to go out on this evening of impending storm blowing in a forecast of freezing rain and snow and sidewalks potentially a slip and slide down into a cracked hip or broken arm-all this in mind as I head out for the Verdun 107 to take in Toni Nardi's show at the Moyse haunted hall up the hill at McGill telling myself I'll see myself when I get off at Sherbrooke stop if the campus is too iced and snowed for me to navigate my walker with trick wheel that now twists awkwardly up the middle of the street past McGill bookstore on this dark but not yet stormy night chill of frost and the weight of the past with my only last candle flickering still alive although no longer sure how much longer I can keep the focus required to keep myself from just one slip and slide away from utter catastrophe inching up an icy incline to the side door of the Leacock building dream on design made by New Age architects when they still had cutting edge glint in their eyes of a utopian future but how dim the future broods now in heavy concrete shade of neon with my memories no longer there on the bulletin boards of socialist meetings grim in unsmiling classrooms of going nowhere 1980's and 1990's in strange don't want to remember dead ending corners and how come I never noticed yes up there the decorative mobiles that have been hanging for decades of Icarus in disattachment from his wings falling with bland impassive face in predicted predestined part of the curriculum falling on schedule while I maneuver whats left of me hunched over to 1st floor marbled sanctum of Art's building with doors open to the Moyse Hall doomlike with sweetening scent of mouldering deceits where lingering students escorted the crippling me tottering up and down fall-of-the-house-of-usher auditorium stairs katunk-katunk with walker making an ungraceful and unwarranted and totally unacknowledged entry of yes we know its you the artist formerly known as Dave Fennario taking a back seat facing the closed curtain and podium and small audience of proven prerequisites waiting to be told what they already know with smug set lips and indistinguishable non gendered eyes wide shut there not to see a show rumoured to be a secret shocking exposee on Canadian theatre by the artist known as Toni Nardi who holds out a hand to me like I'm suppose to be in a rear view mirror but now there in his way clothed in the truth of what I'm hoping he will say behind that pornographic curtain on the snickering stage in words that do slash and flash but alack and alas for the wrong people in the wrong place for reasons beyond reason..
But that's how it starts I tell myself tee-tottering back out into a storm not yet blowing in my face a wild whirl of ill wind that blows nobody but the nobodies any good

Good on you Toni