Words ‘From Scholtz’s House’ (7 minutes 2013)
How do I feel?
I’ve spent most of my life trying to answer that question
I just keep going, I’ve stretched my roots
So thin they should snap, but they never do.
My life is still there and in many ways I’m there with it
It hurts to think what might have been, so I try not to think that way
But I do, and the anger floods in.
I’ve been forced to carve into days which can leave no lasting impression
My memories are there
But I’m here
so when you ask me how I feel, it’s hard to answer
I can’t remember anymore, I can’t remember what I decided to feel
It just makes no sense.
Imagine that one day someone knocks on your door and tells you that you have to leave
leave your house, leave your belongings, you land, your animals
you have to listen so you do
you and your family make a journey
where the destination is uncertain
and at that point everything becomes uncertain
everything you’ve ever known slips away, fades, collapses in on itself
replaced with nothing, nothing which must now become everything.
In those moments we were blinded by certainty.
in those moments which I can never recall
everything was changing direction but I couldn’t see it.
and now the house where I lived has split in two
The place I remember
The place it’s become
And I am in both places at any one moment, and yet I feel I am nowhere .
she always wore the same coat
a red, velveteen coat with a black lining, a black collar
in those days it was difficult to be an individual
but only she had that coat
as a child I’d fall asleep under it
because it smelt like her
we would go into town on Saturdays
I’d try and hold her hand inside those coat pockets
But she would get annoyed
She never understood
As she got older I would visit, two, three times a month, it was enough. We’d eat lunch together, then we’d walk into the forest.
I can recall her voice and see her in my reflection
but I only remember myself
Our ways were different, she pushed change away
her house always looked the same,
the heavy furniture, the smells, the peeling stickers on the bathroom wall. My toys lined up on the mantel, ‘they’re for your children’ she’d say.
so I never had any
She’d move around the house to fill the space
but she couldn’t fill the emptiness
she was empty, no one noticed when she wasn’t there
I didn’t either at first, only after three weeks
She was lying in her morning room, it was evening
and I remember her face then, but it wasn’t hers
I’ve never returned to her house
I don’t need to
it comes to me.
Eliza - Omitted from the video. Originally a fourth voice, a narrative about a structure, an ego which is breaking down. Where imagination and perception are blurred.
Every morning I unfold a day
I confront each hour ahead
And then I fold the day upon itself until it disappears
The day I’ve yet to know but know already
I wade through each orchestrated hour and I play my small part
The same notes, the same tricks and trills, I approach my performance with the same vigour
And always perform as is expected
But in the shadows cast by this bright performance an improvised tune is played
A tune where notes cannot be seen or heard, where staves merge into the spaces between them
Across the garden there is a house,
morning I watched as it fell,
A dust spread across me
The house filled my lungs
I watched as through the silence its debris slowly emerged,
And retreated down into the soil
The thick air slid out from my body
twisted into the sky , into itself until it disappeared
and the house had now returned, framed only by blossom
its windows answering to the sunrise
the grass cut, the trees tended
and everything was silent.