Objects have a way of holding sound    in the same way that objects have a way of holding time    in the same way that time has a way of holding objects    in the same way that sound has a way of holding time    in the same way that objects have a time of holding memories    in the same way that time slips by like an object of sound    in the same way that sand slips away like an aspect of time    in the same way that aspects of the self can be reflected in others    in the same way that a slight chink in the armour can let the light shine through    in the same way that a picture of time can be seen as an object

in a time composed of
the confluence of situations
that lead to an object resonating
with a vibration that is arranged
in the shape of a memory
I am asking you this

who will be coming to dinner tonight?

although perhaps the preferred remembrance
of dear-held-things is that oh-so-one-and-only
it is a regretful fact that those
flesh-flaying fuckers that keep us alive
with their clingy little claws
are the regular dinner guests

ah    good old bad night
to you     my ghost     a gift
continually sprinting towards
a murky watered misremembered past
so populated with the less-than-popular particulars

I hate to be the bearer of bad news
but this song will not sigh only    um    once

such that the specifics of this one memory
are lost to the savagery of access
that one that strips the flesh clean off
so that a white bone china rings loud
pitted with the acid burns of repeated recollection
this memory in particular being significant
this memory in particular having been visited
on such several occasions that the site
of said access has become the remembered object
rather than the memory itself
a replayed archival document
remaining a little stained around the edges
the tape thinning    mutating into a vessel lined
with mirrors    forever reflecting its own interior

in the same way that the sound of time is reflected in itself     in the same way that a vibration of a thought can consume an object     in the same way that an honouring of time is to consume said object    in the same way that a remembering of objects is a process led in time     in the same way that a silhouette of rhythms is an outline of the self    in the same way that a suit of armour can be relatively restrictive    in the same way that restrictions can be a better take on an aspect    in the same way that a constraint of lived time is the house of the mind    in the same way that an echo of time is the shape of an object    in the same way that a tilt of the hip can be a memory’s key    in the same way that some hips are more memorable than others

yes    those moody hips

within which can be read
in their specific angle of expression
a mood of the day
one of elation or seduction
allurement or procurement
that leads to said hip bone
being stored in a different drawer
a drawer reserved for circumstantial inflections
that recount an opportunity for
a situation to have a multitude
of potential modes of departure

that    for instance    had the tilted hip bone
been acted upon in line with its perceived intention
then the remainder of the evening would perhaps
have unfolded in a manner that departs
from the evidence of the memory
but    had the intention been perceived in error
then such an awkward presupposition
would have led to a course of action
that could maybe have been regretted
thus leaving an imprint of disdain
within the fabric of the memory

regret itself being the scourge of recollection
a plague-like process that will spread and endure
better    in fact    for the act
to be resigned to the realm
of potential opportunity missed
of a memory of an intention
of the warmth of a closeness not felt
than to be confronted head-on
as the fickle fizzle of brevity

in the same way that the beginning silhouette can be felt in a song    in the same way that the breadth of a breath can be measured in hand    in the same way that the memory of an object can be sculpted in a mind    in the same way that a memory of a loved one can be held in an object    in the same way that a line on the hand can deliver in time     in the same way that the right evening light is a religious experience     in the same way that the reception of a memory is that same evening light

that light from the bay window of the balcony
that stretches across the floor
now held upon the surface of the object
which is    in turn    vibrating
burrowing itself out from the fabric
of the surrounding air as it differentiates
object from subject from memory from nemesis

not longing to be back in the sticky
entangled past that the memory entails
but instead focusing upon the process
the walky act of getting some
leading to an overwhelming compulsion
to consume not the vestige of the memory
but the vibrational network of
psychedelic capillaries that snake around
the memory like a multicoloured aura
filling the air with the distinct
timbre of heavily used ballet shoes
still containing the writhing rhythm of each dance
each subsequent dilapidation

raising the stinking ballet shoe
to the ear    you know    conch style
introduces a familiar mournful melody
a vestige of some big boy brass movie soundtrack
to a film that was once exceedingly
influential upon the development
of the adolescent self
yet whose present significance
now holds infinitely dismissable

despite the insignificance of the hollow lyric
what remains of the requiem
is the heroic instrumental melody
the melody that still moves in the way
that emotionally manipulative music
that is strategically deployed
within the confluence of visual montage
proves to move most other feeling beings
sentient enough to follow narrative arcs

although now divorced from the narrative arc
this vestige of a manipulated feeling remains
as goosebumps without clear meaning
springing up on cool chicken skin
in a trebling ice-level escapade

so you are lying there like an avocado
with the centre scooped out
awkwardly wrapped around the covers
clinging somewhere between hips and lips
to the sound-image memory
unsure of a direct source but aware
of a slight dusting in the air
of the narrow strip of midnight light
of the shirt and its smell
of that thing that hits just right
of the mud trudged up the stairs

in the same way that the river is right whether once or twice    in the same way that the delivery of an object is a focus of a feeling    in the same way that the echo of time can be heard in the object    in the same way that the terms of delivery can be sculpted with vibration    in the same way that a mother of a memory is felt in an object    in the same way that the nose is a primary organ of remembrance

here it comes
a short fumble of thumbs
followed by a massive migraine

um    yep

you will and I
I will and they
they will and we
we will and she
she will and he
he will be still

come on now
let’s get this over with
at least let me sleep
not swivel around this
mistake of a moment
for a minute longer
either forget it
or deal with it

in the same way that the light of an evening can help you to remember    in the same way that forgetting is a necessary feature of the object    in the same way that an arrangement of rhythms is a slice out of time    in the same way that a cake can reveal its author’s intent    in the same way that a memory’s indent makes an echo of an object    in the same way that the access to the indent is a shape of time    in the same way that the light on the shape can throw a bit of shade    in the same way that the shade can be a welcome respite from the sun    in the same way that the fade of an object can be composed as song.

Samuel Brzeski (UK/NO) is an artist and writer based in Bergen. He studied English Literature at University of Sheffield, took an MA in Fine Art at The Art Academy, University of Bergen, and participated in the Mountain School of Art programme in Los Angeles. Recent and ongoing projects include exhibitions, performances and publications with Lydgalleriet (Bergen), Studio 17 (Stavanger), Inversia Festival (Murmansk), Galleri Box (Gothenburg), KRAFT (Bergen), and Chao Art Centre (Beijing).