here at a lost empire of trade

I haven't commented, yet, upon the place that I've found myself as of late. Not my station in life - but the actual place that I'm living.

There's a river running alongside of some cornfields in a rural part of the American countryside north of Seattle. In this part of the state, there might sometimes be considered a clash of cultures: suburban Californian fuckery - the kind of people who walk into the middle of an intersection with the intent of suing the first driver that hits them - and the traditionalists who still cling onto some idea that we might have lessons to learn from our histories.

We call this the I-5 corridor - and ever-increasingly - every single town along this corridor is being taken over by Californians. Or at least, people who couldn't care less about history. People who don't feel attached in any way to the idea of the forests that are already here, preferring instead to import their trees without any regard to the fact that we are the Evergreen State, and Palms do not fucking count.

Tucked into the floodlands of the Stillaguamish River, alongside that old slough, there's a house. Apparently this house is on the National Historic Registry, although I haven't found its listing. It's called the Old Jorgensen House.

And there's a little structure off to the side of that main house, tucked in-between a few old shacks.

It's a trailer. An old - very old - 20 foot yellow travel trailer. With a tarp on the roof to keep out the leaks, and some newspapers on the windows for privacy. And it's where I live right now.

In a trailer, on a farm, in Stanwood. Admittedly, every detail of that sentence is worse than the previous - but it's a fine place. It's kind of like camping - for the impoverished. I have no complaints however. I was homeless before this, so it's luxurious to have an entire queen to myself.

But it does make me constantly evaluate my hermititude. I have lived in several places by myself already, and I gain a sort of power in being able to be the king of my own domain. I like to sit around naked and sweating my balls into whatever surface I've found myself at the moment.

But there's a precedent that being lonely can lead to being fucked-up. And this is not a place to have company. The prospect that I might be here any later than August absolutely terrifies me.

What I'm more terrified of than anything else, though, is that my landlord might one day discover my views on Donald Trump. She's an ardent Trump supporter - which is confusing to me because she's got a Ted Cruz sticker on the back of her minivan.


Her favorite book as a young woman in college was Atlas Shrugged.

And I just threw up in my mouth.

When I first moved in, the very first words out of her mouth were "Hello. Sorry, I'm a little late, I was out running my business. I've been a small business owner for years. But now that we've got Trump in office, things are going to get better. We're going to have a decade of prosperity."

It was all I could do not to say anything. I have ventured not to speak more than five words at a time since.

There's a huge sign out on the road that just showed up overnight that says "Nate Nehring for County Council."

I've been struggling as of late. My understanding of the universe has it that anyone who voted for Donald Trump has no understanding of the word "Truth." But I'm pretty sure that my own mother voted for him. She has said to me in conversation "He's grown on me."

WHAT? HOW? How on God's green planet can that THUG - that CON ARTIST have GROWN on ANYONE?

I wanted to punch the fucking wall. Every time I think of that sleezebag, I think of a generation that hated Jews, blacks, and women. A generation, I might point out, of white people. This isn't a political article. There are no theories here. This is just what I need to say. Just what's been on my mind recently.

So - I really have to struggle to not write an article that isn't based on Trump. I really have to struggle not thinking about him at least every ten minutes, and how severely we might be fucked in the next ten minutes.

America is fucked.

In previous administrations, EVEN in the Bush administration, the President of the United States was considered the Leader of the Free World. But Trump is not. There is no arguing this point. He doesn't even argue it. He's a nationalist.

Who has taken his place?

Justin Trudeau. Our neighbor to the North. After Trump's election, freethinking Americans began looking to Canada, studying it, and pondering the possibilities of migration. In fact - and this is an actual fact, contrary to the bullshit that comes from Fox - millions of Americans searched on Google "How to move to Canada."

Why? Because of Trudeau. He's a liberal. He's suave. He's sexy. He's smart. He's strong. He's funny.

He also has amazing social policies. He's re-opening discussions with the First Nations to deliberate the policy of providing interpreters in Parliament. That's example one. Again, this isn't a political post.

Basically - Trudeau is the new Obama. Trudeau is the leader of the Free World.

And when you think of it like that - suddenly the leap of imagination that made Kathy Griffin and Johnny Depp both independently of the other comment on Trump's mortality - doesn't actually seem that insane. If Trump doesn't actually matter, then why should we fucking tolerate him?

Well, I'm saying this right now: don't. If you are reading this: don't.

The only answer for death is death.

ANNDD... it would also mean that Mike Pence would be thought of as a hero. This can never happen.

We can tolerate Trump - as long as we fight back. As long as we resist.

The whole ironic thing is where I am. This house I'm living next to, the one currently occupied by the Trump voter with the Nate Nehring sign out on the road (far too large than is necessary) - this place used to belong to a man called Jorgenson. A big man, as the story goes. Tall as the trees, like most Norwegians might have seemed to the denizens of this area.

And... he got along with what might have been called the "Other" of that time: The Stillaguamish.

There's an island just to my East that I can actually get to - if I can figure out how to get over the river - that used to be, according to the fish tales of the locals, the primary trading hub of the Stillaguamish Tribe. Now, maybe I've gotten an incorrect version of the story, but it's damn thought-provoking to think. As I stand on the banks of the river on a lazy Sunday afternoon - like I did today, I think of how much America has changed.

Not in the fact that there are a lot of terrible things that don't exist anymore.

But a story like this. Jorgenson, as the story goes, used to stand on the banks of the river and trade with the Native Stillaguamish as they rode past in their canoes. I think of that.

I think of that, and then I think of all of the people who came after. People like Standard Oil, because apparently Corporations are people too. People like the East India company, which was around long before, and long after - but whom exactly personifies this type of neglect for human decency.

It makes me think of the degradation of the Stillaguamish. Where are they now? They used to live here. I wonder if the spot that I'm sitting right now might have once been a place for a deer hunt.

You know those canoes I mentioned that they were in? One of them is actually at the University of Washington. It's called a Shovelnose Canoe. Item #1-145 in the Ethnology Collections of the Burke Museum. Donated by someone called Mr. G.B. Jorgenson.

Damn. The stories might have been slightly twisted over the years to suit the style of old Irish loggers and fishermen, but the Jorgenson name is prevalent in the Burke Museum, and the fact that two separate people with that surname have donated canoes to the museum... it just adds an air of legitimacy to the stories. It goes from something hypothetical and legendary, to something based mostly in fact. These things happened. There was a Jorgenson family here, and they did get along with the tribes of this area.

So what about this new world of hate?

In my mind, Trump is the kind of guy who wants to burn history on his path to domination. He's a thug. He doesn't care for the planet or getting along with others.

But maybe in the mind of my landlord, and my mother, he actually represents this place that now only exists in our hearts. A once-great nation where people actually got along with each other. A place where a man could build a house and pay his respects to the earth. A place where you could hear the sound of birds in the morning. Where youngsters called you "Sir," and "May'm."

Perhaps we're both wrong, and we're attaching our own prejudices to whatever figure is in the White House right now.

But I think I'm right. Trump is a fucking nightmare. Just set aside your prejudices and read his statements.

We're fucked.