People are always asking me, Troy, why shoes? Why power lines?
A hanging pair of shoes sends a message. It says, “Welcome to the City. People die here.”
Is it a warning? Yes.
Is it art? Well, now we’re getting into slippery territory. Is Neil Diamond art? Is the Statue of Liberty art? What is courage? Etc. Of course it’s art…to me. It’s my art. It’s my passion.
I can’t call it destiny because what is destiny? Was it my destiny to get those old Reeboks caught on that line near 17th and Jefferson? I didn’t set out to do that this morning. I set out to hit the Dollar Menu at McDonald’s with a ten spot. Did I change course because I wanted to or because it was my destiny? You see where this is going?
Is it dangerous? Well, only when you get them down.
But I don’t get them down. I get them stuck. That’s what I do. I tie shoes together at the laces and toss them at power lines so they will hang and mark that I’ve been there.
My first time? June 20, 1987. Just off Newberry St. near Market. Took me several tosses–it didn’t come easy–but eventually they snagged. I was 13. You never forget your first hanger.
Does this define me? No. And yes.
I’m not just a power line shoe-tosser. I’m a poet. I’m someone’s child. I believe in the sanctity of life, etc.
And yet I am a power line shoe-tosser. It’s in my bones. It’s what I think about when I get up. It’s on my mind as I go to bed. Someday, God-willing, I’ll pass this on to my children. Maybe one of them will land that elusive Timberland boot snag or find a pair of Jordans and get them caught somewhere near downtown.
Where is this going? I don’t know. I’m just one man. One man who steals shoes from Goodwill, from passed out men at the bus station, and ties those laces together to heave skyward. Will it snag? Will it hit the mark and say to the neighborhood, “Drug house, everybody!”? Again, I don’t know.
It gives me purpose.
It’s the flame I protect from the storm.
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