To Digging Ditches, Holes, Trenches, Foundations And The Like (first letter)

Here we are again with no game to play or refuse.  Struggle is laid bare.  There’s no rhetoric, no pontificating.  You always get me thinking but this is never confused with a performance of thought, a strategically deployed simulation, a socio-economic means imposed by modernity.   Privilege can’t hide.  There’s no spin, no cons, no voice of reason, let alone impressions, influence, appearance.  With each outing you manage to instantaneously collapse the abstractions and material realities of everyday life.  With every reunion I’m concretely reminded of my inevitable death and the living I have left before I get there.
Have I been taking a step forward to take another ten back?  Why am I here with you again (again) after everything I’ve done and tried to do?  Arguably I have no illusions and I certainly can’t bear pretending that I do.  The division of labour – the brutally naturalized hierarchical assumptions and violent lies – can’t hide the equivalency of all things in this world as marketplace.  Bullshit jobs proliferate while you remain honest.
Whenever I find myself at an end you stand by me, underneath me, in front of me.  The world as it is will dissipate, perhaps rather quickly, but you and I (or those after me) will still be here.  We are the referent.  Value is buried by our importance.  I can’t do without you.