No. 4 & 5


Sawako Nakayasu  

Texture of a Conductor

Or rather this is more about density; let’s say you press yourself up against your favorite conductor, take an analog thermal-image of his body and all the flesh therewithin contained, which carries the physical memory of every symphony every concerto, well every damn piece of music ever conducted by this body. No it is not muscle memory, this, but a memory of every single morning after, of birds making a choppy break for the imagined loosening threat of blue, of every score that took him down, killed him, of the joy that came from being nourished, not by food but by a mouthful, a bodyful of music, and cavities, yes you will feel each cavity in his body as well, an honest press and you will find yourself faced with the distractions of the give in his body, variable just like any other indeed, this very give being the real source of that thing called music otherwise known as love, as we continue to press and press up and press in, against those stolid firm and tender maestros in order to experience the give in our own tender bodies once we get past the daily commute. 

And when that conductor turns out to be not one of music but of trains, and his familiarity with a different sort of give in the body, as it finds itself faced with the pressure of a speeding vehicle or even that of an angry nation. Two days ago a man and his wife strung themselves from a tree, finding no other way to face down the unbending fact of their negligence.

for Nada and Gary

Whenever I meet new people I want to touch them first and find out their texture. I do this in stores when I am shopping, too, so shopkeepers hate me. I turn to the person on my left and ask very gently if I can lick his or her eyeball. The food arrives and I place a slice of raw cow tongue in my mouth, because someone once told me that this is absolutely the sexiest food item in the world. If you like kissing cows. I get up to go use the restroom, but the person on my right, instead of moving out of the way, offers to me his or her arm, with a large gash from last week’s motorcycle accident. There is an awkward moment, and then I sit back down so that I am more stable. I clean off my right hand before I touch, insert my finger inside and then further, some asshole at the other end of the table is making stupid sound effects, but in any case I am soon unaware of everything oh no everything at all, and if I were not myself at the moment I would probably have to avert my eyes, unable to watch as a certain virginity is lost, and then lost.



The copyright of 
everything published 
here remains 
with the author's.


Main Page | Current Issue | Contributors| News | Where to Buy | Links | Contact us | Archives

© 2003-2005 Ars Interpres Publications.