Victor Vitanza: The (dis)content of composition
The (dis)content of composition
1. When is a writing class a writing class, and when does it become something else?
A writing class is a >class< of writing. When “it is” Not-writing. “It is” then something else. What writing, when writing, variously -determines- is content. Or attempts to determine. Its forever unkn.own self. Writing, however, determines content while it simultaneously overdetermines that content and its.own.self. Writing, when writing, is about Writing when writing. Writing is double in its nature. Writing content is discontent. That’s a syntactically difficult -sentence- to read. Let’s do it again: Writing content is discontent. When writing “content” is spilled into a container, or fixed, formulated, classified, genrefied, memomummifed, there is the need—not to speak of the desire—for just-more-writing, overdetermining such writing. Which writing, when writing Nothing, always dis/engages in. Writing satisfies that need. Writing, when writing, takes care and shelters itself. … So then, a writing class (or a classless)
[yields to]> content [yields further to] > discontent [yielding to] > some more writing > etc.
Writing, when writing, says: Long live dis/content!
Writing, when writing, leads to writing and more writing until there is no need for class (social, economic, cult studs and their careers, etc). Only a desire for something else. What writing wants, when writing, is classless-writing. In order to write, when writing, a so-called writer must lose “its” class. No classification. No genus. No face. It’s not that writing, when writing, is against class. Rather, writing, when writing, is for just-more-writingSSSZZZ. For something that is far -more- than something-else. Desire in writing is for something not otherwise, but other-else. AllWays something other-else. Writing has its needs and its desires. Writing is promiscuous. Insatiable.
So then, perhaps the question without a question is
2. What do we include in writing classlesses?
Writing and more writing. Ever more writing. Just-writing, useless words, on everything. On the ground and floors. Ceilings. Doors. In cells in prison. Long live misprisions! On paper in books. In library books. In the Book. On the walls. On the beach. On screens and monitors. On listservs. In the sky. On water. On waves. On flesh. Toes.fingernails. On livers. On truffles. On greenbacks. On manuscripts in bottles. On vegetables. Zukes! Eggplant! In between the words and in the margins of Dictionaries. On the forehead of Henry Miller. On one’s own writing, when writing. Tagging. On clouds. On gravel and gravestones. On scars. On smileys. All, dis/engaging in Writing, when writing, liberating so-called writing in others’ books (especially textbooks on writing) and looks (on sur.faces) and elsewhereS. Everywhere and nowhereS.
Writing, when writing, is very much about Nothing! but this Nothing is nothing negative. Not lack. But more so, more just, excesses, embarrassments of riches, embracing (-embrasser-, -baiser-) these riches, excesses.
After all has been written and unwritten, erased perpetually, that’s what writing wants. Classless writing. Writing loves all things that flowwwww~~~~~~~…. Writing-collaborating with more re: writing, flowwwwwwwwing, not with writers, but more so with writings’ wrythings, with-being-there-writing. Long live writing’s dis/content! Short live hegemony! Long live negentropy! For the love and lust of one more moment or day of writing, each moment of each day, more and more writings/z. Of trifles. Not rifles aimed at a target. Just more trifles. It’s a trifle that stirs the world.
Just-Remembering and Just-Stoking the Coles, vv