Thursday, June 11, 2009

 

Theresa Porch

photo by Steve Shay




Obituary

Theresa Porch
May 30, 1954--June 5, 2009




Most of us met her at the free feast, at noon on any given Friday, in the basement of St. Luke's Episcopal Church, here in Ballard. With a booming voice and a firm grip, she would angelically enforce much needed order. Society's spectrum dines there, from shattered homeless souls to retired professionals (widowers usually), who need a home-cooked meal, prepared by humble elderly ladies who summon recipes, from oh so many years ago.

Theresa welcomed all--rank or status (up or down) meant nothing to her--you were a person, one of God's creations, and that was enough for her to love you. She would never preach at you, or to you--that was the subtle job for the food servers to insert. But she wanted to know the details of your struggles, and she would willing share hers with you.

Reporter Steve Shay and I went over there one Friday in April of 2008. I wanted him to witness what one amazing woman was doing. I asked him to take a couple of pictures, and Terri was OK with that. Steve's remarkable portrait at the top truly caught her essence. I sent her a copy. In a return e-mail she responded:
"Got the picture. Thank you. Have to say it is one of the best I seen of me in a long long time. Thanks again. See you soon. "(4.26.2008)

Terri had immense medical problems, and she and I would talk over symptoms, medications, and the procedures she was experiencing. She faced her mortality straight-on, yet, at a moment's notice, she was ready with a smile, a wry joke, or just a knowing nod.


An Angel has returned to Heaven. And while we who remain will miss her dearly, her legacy of love and forgiveness will live on, cemented in the hearts of many.

Goodby Terri. See ya up yonder.






Photo by Terri's daughter, Kathleen

# posted by ballardbullshit @ 1:49 PM

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

 

The Squat House

Photo by "a Squirrel in a nearby tree", donated courtesy of
http://www.compasscenter.org

Above two photos by Lorn J. Fant
http://www.honario.net


Ballard Bullshit

©June of 2009
Lead Writer, Editor and Publisher: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
Where informed attitude counts


Peter Wesley Hall



The Squat House

"Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. When it snows in your nose you catch cold in your brain."
---Allen Ginsberg


Peter Hall is 15, and yes, that's his real name. Peter was born in Vladovostok July 15th, 1993. In that gray and rainy coastal town, his mother let him wander off, at age two, into the brutal Soviet streets. They don't pander to errant mothers in Russia, and he was whisked away to a nearby orphanage, in his soiled diaper.

Peter's mother let the State take him, and two years later he was adopted by an American couple, who live in Magnolia. Peter has a few memories of his days in the orphanage.

"I remember I burned my left leg on a hot stove, and had painful blisters everywhere."

Peter's first brush with authority was not pleasant.

"I stole an apple. . .I was just so hungry. I gave it to a girl who was sleeping a couple of beds from me Then I wanted it back. I went to grab it and she bit me, hard." Needles may have been a part of the punishment.

His Magnolia life was all about rules. Very little love and a whole lot of discipline, coupled with a warped Christian home life that just didn't make sense.

Peter is 5'6", 130 pounds, and mildly bow-legged. His eyes have an ever so slight epicanthic fold, reminiscent of his Mongol lineage. In Russia, if you have a small percentage of that warrior blood, you are an 'entitled' person. You are preferred--akin to Americans who have a quarter or eighth Native American blood coursing their veins. But over here, no one gives a shit about the great Khan's bloodline.

Peter's step-parents thought they could mold this boy into a clean-cut, respectable follower of Christ, but his genes worked overtime to refuse this indoctrination. The real reason is that Peter's mind can be described as a rarified mixture of cultural genius.

"You are different," I told him. "Your sense of reasoning is incredible. You can figure stuff out."

"Y'know," he chimed. "Even when I'm standing around with my friends, I sometimes feel all alone, and I can't explain it."

"It's because you're cursed with brilliance," I offered.

Because he was stubborn, Peter was deceived by his step-parents who drove him to a boot camp in Montana when he was just 14. A camp full of Russian kids. Now stay with me here. First, he was willingly abandoned in his home country, then adopted, then sent to a hell-hole by his supposed 'caring' American parents. You want to talk about all alone in alien corn? Peter was never violent, he just didn't give a shit about control.

Peter tried to run away from the militaristic 'corrections' that were brutally imposed on him. He found a car with keys in the ignition--a vehicle with a stick-shift. Of course he couldn't work that with any proficiency, and he ran the car off the road.

And of course he was caught. The vicious authorities at boot camp decided to mete out a little ol' fashioned punishment.

Solitary.

"They put me in a white room which I couldn't even stand up in. It was so cramped. A little bed, a toilet, and a small desk."

"Did they give you any books to read?" I asked, incredulous at this admission.

"Just one. The Bible."

The pained look on his face crushed me.

"I was in there for seven days."

After a total of three weeks of 'rehabilitation' Peter returned to Magnolia, and had to face the unrelenting pressure from his step-parents. He'd had enough of this bullshit. So he ran away--from home boot camp that is.

Caught yet again, he was re-enrolled in the juvenile offenders' school system. And in the Fall of 2008, he ran away again. To Ballard. Tired of sleeping in the weeds, he found recourse in the only available shelter that had no rules, especially Christian ones.

The Squat House, at 1753 NW 56th street.

* * *

This building had been abandoned for a few years already, yet the electricity was still on. It was a known crack house, and the 'residents' were dealers, thiefs, transients, and kids. Break-ins were occuring all over the neighborhood. You know the drill--steal, sell the goods cheap, and buy shitty drugs that have been stepped on innumerable times.

Two and a half years ago, I personally talked to the Captain of the North Precinct about this festering ulcer. "We are aware of the situation," was all he could tell me. And the Seattle cops did nothing about it. Neighbors talked openly about arson, and the only thing stopping them was their protection mode they had formed, ad hoc, for the young tenants who had nowhere to go.

Nobody wanted to burn them out, or burn them alive.

Cheap black tar heroin was the drug of choice, with PCP running a close second. How could this continue? Well, it turns out the female owner was getting a sweet little kick-back on the drug sales. She knew she was going to sell this dump anyway, so why not collect a little 'rent' on the side? That's why the electricity was left on. And I suspect a few dirty cops received some gratuities as well. With the neighborhood in an uproar, for years that is, just give me another plausible explanation. . .

This was the world Peter stepped into when he moved in.

* * *

It wasn't that he had anything against heroin, Peter has an intense fear of needles; remember that orphanage? He let me check his inner arms and lower legs to prove it. Pot. . .sure. Alcohol and cigarettes. . .sure. But needles?. . .no, not ever again. He tried to have his lower lip pierced, but he puked. Toddler memories can become quite influential.

Debauchery would be a kind term to describe what Peter witnessed in the Squat House. As a girl-crazy teenager, these sights would not be healthy. He wanted a girlfriend.

"I just can't seem to get a girl to take notice of me."

"Well you've got to be interesting Peter." He was just beginning to learn the adage that nice guys finish last.

Yet after I befriended him, he always had a smile and a cheery "good morning" for me. I talked with him, at length, about the absurdities of doctrinal religion, and he was a willing student. His worthy responses, and questions, were remarkable--as if I had a young Descartes or Aristotle in front of me. A few times he would tell me, "Man, I wish I could have taped our last discussion."

Imagine a young Doctoral candidate, capable of impeccable deductive and inductive reasoning, in front of you, and he's only fifteen.

"Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich."
---Napolean Bonaparte

* * *
So finally the Squat House has been demolished. On an 80 degree June 1st. A group named "The Compass Center" bought the property and plans on building low income housing in a couple of years. I spoke with the facilities manager of that group--Tom Phillips.

A very caring and affable man, Tom was acutely aware of the house's reputation.

"I heard you might turn this lot into a P-patch for the interim. Is that right?" I asked.

"Well we thought about it, but we now feel the neighborhood just needs a rest from all the activity here. So we'll leave it just empty until we start building."

That's a big hallelujah for the immediate neighbors.

* * *

And what of Peter? He's back in juvee. I called to see if I could visit him, and it was a stern 'no'. Only parents. But they can't block the mail.

If you're fortunate, you get to meet a unique and startlingly smart person just once in your life. The main problem is recognizing what's in front of you. This middle-aged writer has been blessed, and I will not give up on this kid.

The last words I said to him, before his current incarceration was:

"Always remember Peter, you've got at least one person who cares." I was pointing at my heart.

Oh, I almost forgot--to Mr. and Mrs. Hall, over there in Magnolia: Fuck You. Your narcissistic egos brought over an East-Russian commodity, not a precious child. You are guilty of neglect. You knew the exact address to the Squat House. You brought your 'son' no food. Or clothes. Or support.

I did.

Furthermore Mr. and Mrs. Hall, take your synthetic Christian faith and shove it right up your asses. And if you don't like my words, well let's just kype a few from your New Testament: Mark 7:27--"But Jesus said unto her, 'let the children first be filled: for it is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it unto the dogs.'" Or, how about Paul's Second Letter to the Corinthians, Chapter 12, verse 14--". . .for the children ought not to lay up for the parents, but the parents for the children." Or one of my favorite karmic statements, from Matthew 10:21--". . .and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death." Are y'all queasy yet?

You two really do not want to meet me face to face. . . . . . . .there's this little Russian tradition I'd like to revive. . .and spittle on your face doesn't taste too good. . . . . .

. . . . . .but unconditionally backing an 'at risk' brilliant young man sure makes my cup overfloweth. . .

* * *


Kiss My Glass

"The ancient Egyptians forged glass into currency. The future is to turn glass into Art."
---Leonardo da Vinci


He is from the Windy City. A kind of gruff, sloppy but literate kind of guy. Not afraid to use vernacular, his salty responses reek of authenticity. He's brash, in your face, and vulnerable.

Meet Bradley Axelrod.

Think glass. He was peddling his wares across the street on the west side of Fred Meyers.

"So I have to ask you the ultimate tourist question--have you ever met Dave Chihouly?"

"Hell no, but everyone I know who has, has said he's an asshole."

"Well OK," I replied. "Look, I met James Michener, and he was a total dick. But that can never diminish his great novels, some of which made it to movies."

"Oh yea, I get that. Chihouly really is my idol."

I asked him about sales, seeing's as this was Mother's Day. "Well, guys buy more for their girlfriends on Valentine's Day than they do for their Mothers on this day." Hmmm, well I guess he would know wouldn't he?

So what I'm really saying here is, look, this guy makes good glass. And it's not only just affordable, it's cheap--and gorgeous.

So check him out. You really should buy some of his creations, because his 3-D expressions are excellent:

www.etsy.com/bellafioriglass.

Then let him know your interests: Bella_Fiori_Glass@hotmail.com. Tell him I sent ya.

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# posted by ballardbullshit @ 3:55 PM

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