NOMAN
There is this kid, Noman, who lives down the road. He just finished High School so now he is trying to figure out what to do with himself. His father had told him I was a rock and roll star and toured the world, so this summer he has taken to hanging around the farm. Roman has hired him to do some stuff in the garden. Weeding, mostly. He avoids looking at me.
A few days ago Roman asked him to bring me a package that UPS had delivered. It was copies of Demonic from Miles. Noman had not been in the studio before. In his best casual style he said, "How's it goin'." I provided the proper cliché response. He asked if he could hear what I was working on. I would normally toss a person out for such a question, but it seemed a good opportunity to smash some fantasies about who and what I was.
The computer screen flickered and the speakers cried in agony. I gave him a 30-second dose that no 18 year old should be able to comfortably stomach.
Feeling a bit cocky and proud of myself, I looked back at him for a response. He said, "Why do you want to do that?” It wasn't the response I expected.
He explained his question. The only reason he could think of for doing music was that you could be popular, make lots of money, and have girls want to have sex with you. He saw no possibility for any of that happening with what he had just heard so it seemed to be a huge waste of time.
He is absolutely correct. When you get down to the simplest explanation, living things exists for only one reason, to make more living things. Music exists for the purpose of seduction.
I am older, past the age of reproducing, and my music is no longer about seduction. It is about possibilities that can only be called out once orgasm is no longer a fixation.
18 year olds don't understand that, nor should they.
All I could explain was that my music had not made me popular, but it had made me notorious. It had not made me wealthy, but I did own a farm. The girls had not lined up to be impregnated but I shared orgasms with a sufficient number of creatures of my same species, plus a few questionable ones.
"I may waste my time, but I get the same 24 hours just like everyone else. Gotta do something."
(My mind briefly wondered if I should do some volunteer work in town instead of making rude noises all day.)
I asked if I could paint him.
He looked at me suspiciously, "Do I have to take my clothes off?"
"Only that stupid hat", I said.
There is this kid, Noman, who lives down the road. He just finished High School so now he is trying to figure out what to do with himself. His father had told him I was a rock and roll star and toured the world, so this summer he has taken to hanging around the farm. Roman has hired him to do some stuff in the garden. Weeding, mostly. He avoids looking at me.
A few days ago Roman asked him to bring me a package that UPS had delivered. It was copies of Demonic from Miles. Noman had not been in the studio before. In his best casual style he said, "How's it goin'." I provided the proper cliché response. He asked if he could hear what I was working on. I would normally toss a person out for such a question, but it seemed a good opportunity to smash some fantasies about who and what I was.
The computer screen flickered and the speakers cried in agony. I gave him a 30-second dose that no 18 year old should be able to comfortably stomach.
Feeling a bit cocky and proud of myself, I looked back at him for a response. He said, "Why do you want to do that?” It wasn't the response I expected.
He explained his question. The only reason he could think of for doing music was that you could be popular, make lots of money, and have girls want to have sex with you. He saw no possibility for any of that happening with what he had just heard so it seemed to be a huge waste of time.
He is absolutely correct. When you get down to the simplest explanation, living things exists for only one reason, to make more living things. Music exists for the purpose of seduction.
I am older, past the age of reproducing, and my music is no longer about seduction. It is about possibilities that can only be called out once orgasm is no longer a fixation.
18 year olds don't understand that, nor should they.
All I could explain was that my music had not made me popular, but it had made me notorious. It had not made me wealthy, but I did own a farm. The girls had not lined up to be impregnated but I shared orgasms with a sufficient number of creatures of my same species, plus a few questionable ones.
"I may waste my time, but I get the same 24 hours just like everyone else. Gotta do something."
(My mind briefly wondered if I should do some volunteer work in town instead of making rude noises all day.)
I asked if I could paint him.
He looked at me suspiciously, "Do I have to take my clothes off?"
"Only that stupid hat", I said.
