PLEASE MEET DONOVAN:
It was a late fall afternoon in the Jungle near Georgetown. I walked the train tracks past factories. There was razor wire and rain. Loud machinery belched steam that obscured, then rose to join dark clouds. A switch engine sat rumbling. It’s powerful light cutting the fog. Illuminating the fence hole. A mud path into the woods that led to a fond memory. The day I met the Bladesmith.
On the other side- an encampment. A close community out of sight and sorts. Knit together by time and tarps. The inhabitants socialized next to a smoky fire in a metal washtub. There had long been rumors of a reclusive man who lived beyond, deeper into the woods. A metal worker who forged friendships and knives. I inquired and received vague directions, exchanged courtesies, and set out to find him.
A long walk under South Seattle’s elevated Interstate 5 is hypnotizing. Repeating symmetrical banks of grey cylindrical columns. Rising continuously, monotonously. Like an unending thundering cathedral. Lonesome and empty. Adorned with trash and treasures from decades of homeless occupation. Finally, past a small knoll- a modest fire pit. Some chairs and metal forgings. A crude anvil and unfinished projects. A man with gentle eyes peered from a lonesome tent. I had found Donovan.
“I’m an artist and a metal worker.” Donovan makes custom knives- heat treated, forged and mirror polished by hand. He has dabbled in painting and other art forms. He has done technical keyboard music programming and worked at the Phoenix Underground. He’s done some writing. He has lived at this remote camp for 5 years, but has been homeless since struggling with depression following his mother’s death 10 years ago. He has no other family. “It’s tough living outside. But my metal work is noisy and occupies space. It requires fire. I’m often pounding metal at 3 AM. It wouldn’t work inside, or around others.” Donovan is passionate about his work. Passionate about metal.
Donovan realizes that his homelessness is unhealthy. Friends at the UGM have tried to coax him indoors. He knows the exposure, noise, anxiety, and even the soil are unhealthy. At 48 he feels he is aging at twice the rate of a normal man. “People have camped here since the depression. Toxic fluids drip from the freeway. The soil is contaminated. Drag a magnet through it, it’s half metal.” I asked him if he needed anything. He smiled gratefully. “I have everything I need. Thank you for asking.”
The day’s events lightened my walk back via the grim Interstate 5 underworld. Graffiti glowed in the failing light. Shadows stirred. A massive waterfall spilled from a broken storm drain pipe 50 feet above. I smiled anticipating my next visit with Donovan.
Georgetown Neighborhood | Damian
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