Surface Driven

Taco Hampton doused the Maine moose sandalwood candle in his Cone-art studio and, exiting cloudy headed through the massive digitized door, stepped out onto the chalky pavement of a more familiar Milky Way.  The seconds of the day moved along slower than retarded blinks.  As he hooked up his web-purchased Portapod™ player, earphones in place, he thought briefly of window-mirror-mirror-window, then - click – Bosch Toxin live at an outdoor concert.  His vision translated the ticking clock into the unearthly sounds of Rocks' zenith.  "New new new new new new new knew nu NU gnu nous neu ngu nou  - have to come up with something unfamiliar, something up, down, all around.  Cone-art goes nowhere.  Need to be newhere.  Human.  NewMan.  Expand slash contract, infinity slash pre-Genesis, opposing slash attracting, ultra-violet slash infra-red, fire slash water, language slash vacuum, dimension slash dimensionless...why not invent a triggering device for a simultaneous diametrically opposed serial of events?  On fire?  In a vacuum?  Biblical?  Cynical?  Large?  Nano?  Looking glass tugboat emancipated qwerty?" 

Hovering sidewalk heat lifted Taco from the temporary mental haze.  His feet, overly hot in seasonally challenged thick socks, signaled an uncomfortable part of his overused brain.  He had been more than occasionally talking out loud to himself and to myriad satellite brethren and Schwestern for the past three months.  The frustration he experienced at not being able to think of a different way to express himself artistically cloaked the soul of his genius, preventing him from achieving sure potential.

The Jam-art showing began at 7:00pm dull.  Trays of unartistic hors d'oeuvres rested on store bought off-white table cloths.  Dry headache-bound cheap white wine and syrupy stomach-swirling inexpensive red wine displayed in neatly designed rows of fragile plastic goblets awaited uneasy consumption.  Overly waxed recently refurbished hardwood floors gleamed, reflecting the excessive fluorescence from above and the sporadic whiteness from side to side.  Lashintestinal Smallhoffman nervously twirled several dozen artificial hairs on the back side of his wig.  Although this was not a first showing for Smallhoffman by any means, his nerves beach buoyed as certain recombinant wealthy slash influential people had been invited and were expected to arrive any minute.  You know the types.  Politicians, the upper crustitude of media, old money society mavens.  Trophy lovers.  Lusciously perfumed othercontinent sorts.  Nonymous slushy horn tooters.  Enough already.  Accepted, adaptive academic kooks.  Okay, then.