Scheals

Havana Cafe, 16 hours to "The Run"

Monday's happy hours in the cafe have just ended. That was the cue for the group to leave for The Igloo next door. It was not the cold beer one could get there on the cheap that brought them there. Well, it was part of it, but The Igloo's draw was its anartist clientele and the club scene. It was last Tuesday when a girl named Nejala invigorated the spirits of three regulars so much, that they've decided to pursue greater things in life. Of course, all of this would not happen without help of a pair of well known non-anomalous substances, but it's the vision that counts, doesn't it?

The vision was clear: to smash chequerboards on canvases in the middle of the city. They'd dress up in chequerboard outfits and splat over their anomalous canvases to symbolize humanity breaking through the possible into the impossible. Eviva l'arte!1 The rebirth of humanity not only in the image of anomalous, but through the anomalous! All this were to happen tomorrow.

A newcomer to the group, Rejuf, was being introduced to the workings of the spectacle. If it weren't for him, there'd only be enough canvases for the members of the group and no runways. To him, this had to be a public participation, not just a public performance. After all, it was about everyone and not only them. The lack of time forced their hand in terms of number of the canvases and the quality of the runways, but it did not matter one bit. It had to be tomorrow, and it had to be world-shattering.

The Great Square of Minsk, one hour to "The Run"

I sure wish I were my gloves now. Laughing at my right hand hidden in my pocket and miserable left one from the safety of my cosy cupboard.

"Hi! Have you ever thought yourself a piece of art?"

Shucks. If I keep doing these long "i"s no one will grab a leaflet. No one grabs a leaflet, no one thinks themselves a piece of art. No one…

"Look at you! I think I read about you right here!"

That was out of my comfort zone. Right. I need a smoke. The show's not on for another hour anyway. Rest of the Eye Opening Team can handle preparations for "The Run".

So… It's been a wild week even for my standards. If someone were to tell me that I'd do a candy flip with three people I just met, in a place I've never been to before, just because I misread the address, I'd piss myself laughing. I wanted to take part in a poetry slam next door, but what I found in The Igloo literally slammed me through the reality I once knew. Forking smashed the doors of perception. Seen the true colours of the world for the first time.

"We'd get more out of Curiosity if it were to explore Earth properly, trust me."

Doing the inner dialogue out loud again! Name's Nejala and I'm a forking ditz, nice to meet you. Too bad Rejuf's nowhere to be seen, eh. I better get back to preaching, can't let down the Slam Penguins.

A tree on The Great Square of Minsk, half an hour to "The Run"

The canvases have been set up in a chequerboard fashion on the square. Fourteen of them, with every single one having a runway of sorts ending with a makeshift wooden ramp in front of them.
At a glance, it might seem that someone set up a rushed skate park in the middle of Minsk's main square. In the past, such thing would quickly be dealt with, but since L's death entire country seemingly let out a loud sigh of relief and law became a mere suggestion. There was more rules, sure, but society wasn't concerned with assembly permits.

Maybe if it was, Slam Penguins, a week-old anartist group with religious undertones would not be able to set up fourteen canvases of anomalous nature on one of the most populated streets of Minsk.

Tramway number 4, fifteen minutes to "The Run"

Blaming the traffic jam would make for a great excuse for the jam my head is. I don't see this getting me to "The Run" any faster nor making me smarter though. So I guess back to self-loathing. Here it comes.

Welcome back, the compulsive thought of: "Hey, how would you introduce yourself, eh?" No one much, name's Rejuf and I'm just yours truly aspiring anartist with an amazing score of having just started yesterday. Call me "Slammer", 'cause I'm one of 'em. Yikes. That brings up an image of a different kind of slamming… I lack confidence even in my damn head. Been going to that poetry slam place for months and I never did actually slam anything. No. Head, stop. Honestly, I'd never be doing this performance if not the need for physical contact. Yeah, I do believe that this is going to change everything, yeah I do believe that we're going to make a difference and wherever we end up is preferable to this.

Hmpf. At this pace, I'll be late at least fifteen minutes. Imagine I fail to slam this, too.

The Great Square of Minsk, five minutes to "The Run"

Where the hell is Rejuf? Not that we can't do "The Run" with just seven of us, some folk seem keen on trying our canvases out. Fourteen salvations. Fourteen works of art. Fourteen hammer swings at the glass of false reality. Fourteen accusations, fourteen shrieks, fourteen glares! Fourteen steps to leave humanity's teens!

How come anart failed to awaken people up? It's been around for at least two centuries now! Somehow it's all around us, most of it beneath the thinnest of surfaces, with zero attention given to it. Alright, I'm fresh to this but how come I mistook it for technology? Glitches in the matrix? Coincidences? Drunken and drugged spiels? Why when I started asking people older than me about it, they admitted to knowing about anomalies but none of them found it something to worry their heads about? Who's drunk and who's drugged here? The impossible neatly fits into the possible, the possibilities of the anomalous are limitless… No more questions, no more worries, no more doubts!

"The Run" is about to begin. A week ago I wanted to try my hand at slam poetry. A week later, I'm trying to go beyond humanity. Nothing is impossible.

A tree on The Great Square of Minsk, "The Run"

The preaching coming out from the loudspeaker finally died down. The group has ran out of leaflets quarter of an hour ago already, and has mostly concerned itself with emotional outbursts and chain smoking. The time of salvation has come, as they said. Eight of nine Penguins were slowly approaching the runways. Their chequerboard outfits shone in the cold, winter Minskian sun. Probably something to do with them being created out of plastic table covers.

The most curious sight is the six bystanders, now performers in "The Run". Only notable thing shared between them would be some degree of boredom and stillness felt in their lives. Not for long, because as they have been told, "The Run" is going to end life as they know it. It's going to bring out the art of their true being to the entire of humanity. Their life shall usher in the rebirth of the humankind.

All it would take, they were told, is to run into the canvas. Let it take you and show the world your true self. Penguins thought they found their fellow-travellers in vision. The only thing they shared was sheer curiosity.

That feeling was quickly felt by the crowd around the chessboard-like space created by the canvases and the runways. While every single participant started when the People's Clock rang midday, they approached the canvases in different ways. Most of them ran, of course, and those changed into blobs of paint mid-run, just to be thrown by their momentum onto the canvas. More cautious ones were seemingly pulled onto the canvas after they got turned into paint while strolling the runway.

The Great Square of Minsk, three minutes after "The Run"

Yeah, I fucking knew it. I did a run while they did "The Run". Fourteen paintsplosions have gone to the other side, higher plane, a lower ring of hell, another life, you name it. They aren't around, that's for sure.

Slam Penguins are gone. Guess who's around? Yours truly, looking like I'm the only one who showed up for the Annual Chequerboard Enthusiasts Meetup. Y'know, what we wanted to do is to slam the board on the canvases to bits. What I wanted is to slam myself on canvas. Smash the Board of Reality that humanity plays on. I can't imagine Nejala being in my situation. Her zeal and devotion were unmatched. All those people are doing is just shooting pictures, posing with the canvases, dancing to TikToks and wondering what did Banksy mean by this.

Scratch that, there's five guys trying to wrangle one of the canvases somewhere. Is that… Yup. That's vomit. I'm done. Slam Penguins are done. Back to regular slamming. It's Tuesday, after all.

Footnotes