Oh – it all went rather pear-shaped this week.

For a moment there I lost hope.

Not a good place.

So, I got lost.

And I was minutes away from walking away.

I have felt idiotic, foolish, lonely. I got really stuck with what I was doing, what I was trying to do and how to put it into words. I began to wonder if the reason for this was not that I’m making something important, but actually I’m deluding myself and just being a fool.

I posted this on the Vis Com forum earlier in the week.

‘I really don’t know how to explain myself as what I’m exploring is still in its infancy.

It’s like I’ve got the tail ends of a large fishing net and as I pull I can feel the weight of it and something is just surfacing but I can’t quite say what it is, I just know it’s something and I daren’t let go else it will escape, but I’m also worried I might just be hauling up all the rubbish and detritus that’s sunk to the bottom of the ocean and will besmirch everything in the process.

I’m pulling up a muddy puddle!! That’s the only way I can put it at the moment.

Why am I doing it? Because…have you ever listened to a piece of music that makes you feel at once like you’ve been made out of sound- the music is ‘just you’ and in that instant too you recognise how far from being that music you are? And it makes you feel so alone? Yet, simultaneously you realise you’re as much part of the music as the music is part of you. So, you spend forever searching for that doorway home again. Writing does that for me. A word is not a line, a letter, a piece of type, decoration…it is a piece of music that has its own colour and way of moving and its own heartbeat. Just as a piece of music is a diagram for how to move, writing is this, and that movement is internal and emotional. It is very much 4d, and where I am in myself and in relation to that moment can change how the writing feels. I am also aware that my audience adds an additional dimension and somewhere in that space between, somewhere ‘other than’ the meaning of all this forms.

I’d love to hear others’ views on this, as the puddle I’m fishing up is so muddy at times I lose sight of my own reflection.’

I shared the piece pertinent to this on the Critique section hoping for a lifeline. Every thread remained silent.

I cannot tell you how close I was to walking (running) away from this- just disappearing, hiding back in the safe invisibility of silence.

My tutors words along the lines of sit with it a bit and don’t rush and let the ideas mature floated around in my brain; Mr Man told me I was not a quitter and he had my back and even if he doesn’t always understand what I’m creating he always believes in it; I remember Julie how you always tell me after I have a wobble that it means something is coming; I even turned the tv on though it was switched off at the plug and I hadn’t touched anything, just sat still battling with my inner demons (this did freak me quite monumentally- lucky I don’t believe in poltergeist). None of this helped convince me that what I’m trying to bring through in my art matters. All I felt was I was being self-serving, selfish, deluded and dull. And arrogant. How dare I think that this matters? How dare I believe that I have any poetry in my soul, any light in my words, any meaning in my art. You can’t make something out of nothing.

I retreated back to academia. I don’t know why really. I knew that Henri Michaux in his mescaline drawings reached where I go in my head and would have understood me if I said I was trying to write the language of my inner space like a choreographer notes the gestures of their body in sequence. He went to the edge of consciousness with the help of this drug. Trance music takes me there safely. However, something I’ve never talked about before does that too. It is not at the edge of sleep that I reach this boundary. It is a place I cannot describe in words, not even unvoiced words in my brain – which is why it needs this new writing to speak it. Psychologically it has been explained to me as type of ‘dissociation’: ‘derealisation’. It has been explained to me as a safety mechanism that I developed to detach myself in order to cope. It is not a condition, not a syndrome. It is a coping mechanism that is of no use now I’m safe, a symptom of abuse that can be laid to rest. It is like a world between worlds. I am here but not here. On the one hand I experience my inner state in a heightened way – I suppose the way Michaux did when he was high – but the world recedes as it does just as you fall into sleep, though I am still conscious. It is completely different to a daydreaming state. But it was this fact – this liminal place -that brought me to look again at any academic writing on Michaux and his trance-state writings – and the door flung open! I felt like I fell crashing through a hole in the sky to land at the feet of a group of people out walking and talking and they didn’t look in the least bit surprised to see me.

I discovered the world of asemic writing.

Everything now makes sense!

I was onto something. Something massive for me.

I have read and researched and gulped down this world like I’ve been out in the desert all my life.

Yet, in my world everything has meaning, everything is metaphor in my world as Sheena reminded me back in ATV. My ‘not writing writing’ refuses to accept the term asemic. It is above, imbued with, saturated with meaning and thus I coin the term: suprasemic.

This was a tough delivery, birthing this realisation. It almost killed the both of us!

But now I have this new life in my hands, I must nurture it and grow it and let it be its full potential.


2 thoughts on “Suprasemic

  1. Sorry not to pick this up till now, Lottie. But it looks like you have generated some discussion on the Forum; hope this has been helpful. I wish you could see what those of us watching you from the outside can see – real creativity, energy and integrity. Not much point me telling you that, I guess. the Asemic/suprasemic writing seems a rich vein for you to explore. I think I’ve already posted my response to this piece. But I don’t get tired of looking at these images; I think the difficulty reading the images that Patricia refers to on the Forum suggests a shifting meaning, it’s hard to pin down. Are the words trapped or preserved.


    1. I love that there’s difficulty in reading them now. It makes the work no longer mine. It’s gone out there and it is speaking for itself! A strange but satisfying feeling. It leaves me free to ask: what do you want the work to say? Do you see the words as trapped or preserved? I see both – as it is inside of me too!


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