To Yvonne Rainer (first letter)

Hello Yvonne.
We don’t know each other and you’ll most likely never read this, but I’m writing to you anyway, if only to momentarily process my thoughts and feelings.  Also — my body can seem to forget itself with this sort of thing.  My fingers begin to type alone.  My eyes scan the screen without attempting to picture themselves.  Nothing abstracts or ossifies with my conscious attention.  It’s a restful sense of disconnectedness that I pretend you’ll appreciate.  Maybe what I’m trying to describe here is like a banal kind of dance, something you’ve already executed with immediacy, without any expectations of expressing something, of anything beyond what is.  Please forgive me.
The images and texts, this writing, looking, selecting and arranging, these interweaving relationships — they undo previous threads and fabrics as they’re generated.  There’s a multitudinous de-inscription taking place in the moment.  One finds oneself able to just be, whether alone or in relation to others.  I presume you know this but I’m just figuring it out.
My trouble is that I can’t stop thinking about a possible future within the perpetual present.  Will this ever make sense?  The vast majority of working artists are trust fund kids performing an ever-expanding canon of recombinant creator-identities, always in relation to a society that no longer exists.  Everything inherent to life is subsumed by representation.  The last remnants of civil discourse and the imaginary are erased by concentrated wealth.  It’s a final, totalizing imposition of the automated, patriarchal death cult you’ve defied all your life.
The wage-slaves, the lumpenproletariart, the ninety-nine percent, they’re all incarcerated by survival, but what about those damn trust fund kids?  Will they reject all they know in order to live (if only for a brutally short instance)?  That’s probably the wrong question.  Can they know they aren’t living?  I’ve found a silver lining in this looming cloud.  It’s a sudden remembrance of you and your contrarian ways.  You must challenge me to reconsider my assumptions, including those I’ve made about trust fund kids and everyone else, but of course, you’ve always had this critical disposition, an ability to question, because you’ve had to manoeuvre around contestations of the way things are all your life.  The simulacral artists of the future won’t have anarchist house painter Dads placing them in children’s homes for years on end.  You’ve had too much adversity to negotiate.  You know your body is a battleground.  You’ve had to think and fend for yourself.  There’s no going back from that.  In this future I can’t stop thinking about, no one is likely to get there in the first place.
How will anyone have the awareness to say no to spectacle, no to virtuosity, no to transformations and magic and make believe, no to glamour and transcendency of the star image, no to the heroic, no to the anti-heroic, no to trash imagery, no to involvement of performer or spectator, no to style, no to camp, no to seduction of spectator by the wiles of the performer, no to eccentricity, no to moving or being moved?  Do they need to?  Can refusal occur in the absence of a priori knowledge or inside information?  What if being is enough in the end?  Maybe becoming is all there really is.
What you’ve tried to do still gives me this hope.