COLLAB 01: THE LINES. SING.

Photo: Copyright Kell Mercer, 2024

Death, it seems, surrounded them. They of the little chances to get out. The statistics. The physical embodiment of what those who were born affluent meant when they said "crime problem". Not like any of them had crossed under the 6 lanes of concrete that separated these haves from these undesired have nots. I-35, some sort of Texan Brandenburg Gate separating the city East By West as opposed to South by. Southwest.

The lines though, they sang.

In the 2000's as the city bulged and swole under unimaginable urbanization and desire, the East softened. First through proximity, then through year after year of smoothing out and a cleansing. Not of the souls of the places, but of its image. A pushing out of those who'd defined it. It started closest to the places that were most desirable,  straight east, then flattened north and south, the gentrification tsunami razing.

And still the lines they sang.

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From the 70's through the 90's the lines were a cautionary tale. They marked something significant. Turf? Literal lines you shouldn't pass. A place where souls had passed on to wherever souls go when their shell is cracked and irreparably broken.

The lines said this is where they perished. Those of which you speak of with such authority but knew nothing. Those undesirables ruining your jewel's image for the conventioneers. Todd from Iowa, Cheryl from New Jersey. These interlopers from without who fueled the city's growth six streets from the "river", no more than a dammed and neutered man made lake at this point. It's power diminished and harnessed.

The lines. Still they sing.

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The reality not seen was the truest definition of why. Small. Simple. Defiant. Especially on this line.

A celebration.

Upon completion of six weeks in Lackland, there was always a return. The warmth of homemade tortillas, of cold Shiner, of familial pride. The boys and girls would return dusty for a short break. Triumphant, their lives dripping in meaning, some for the first time since they'd graced those fields of worship that had given them their first taste of being loved as corners and backers of the line. Two dust covered boots tied and tossed into the bluebird sky. "First try!", the little cousins would yell.

The boots, melodious with the refrain.

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What started as a celebration slowly soured and turned. A challenge for the local kids. A trash can in the sky. Worn out shoes. Nikes mostly. Tied and tossed, tied and tossed. Swinging silently in the languid July air. 105°. The wind  drying and circulating the dusty earth. Wilting and cracking the skin despite the constant layer of sweat. The salt left to accumulate and define the remains of the days. Thrown away. Throwaways. Hoop dreamt and hoopless.

These lines. Songless, just swinging.

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"Wait a moment please."

The lines call.

See me.

See us. Feel what we felt.

What we yearn to feel

Pull these knots together and launch with us into the sky. Canvas and plastic; rubber and foam. Pleather of a previous design. How many "naughga's" had to die to give you this "hyde"? How much air underneath to rise above?

To float and to catch. To add to the collective. To the collection.

We tie and throw and float and fall and we hang in the Texas sky, sullied by nary a cloud.

And we swing.

And we celebrate.

Shhhhhh. Stop for a moment.

You can hear us sing.

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#hugsandhi5s