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.