Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones:
Perseus and the Graiae
(c. 1877)

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, / When first we practice to deceive" Sir Walter Scott, Marmion

"They're sunk."

I navigate my way through these EndDays not quite blindly, but nearly. My depth perception seems intact. Same story for distance, yet I’m growing to distrust my senses since something I’ve long relied upon seems to be missing. Even as I began to grasp that I might reliably presume the cues coming to me are false, I struggled to reverse first impressions fast enough to maintain my balance. I feel forever cattywompus, suddenly slightly sideways to the world, seriously disoriented. Perhaps that’s the underlying intent, the purpose of what I’m growing to expect to reliably prove to always be deliberately false. I more often seem well served by presuming the opposite of whatever story they serve, though it remains cumbersome to find, let alone to translate, the signal received into one I can believe I actually comprehend.

I remain a simple man, prone to accepting most signals more or less as face value received. I can easily comprehend a sliver of shaving off any absolute truths, for I acknowledge the existence of honest ambiguity. I also understand that some truths do not necessarily require elucidation, and can and probably should remain unspoken, yet still remain remarkably well-understood. I’m thrown off when up arrives as down, or down as up, and especially when the misrepresentation seems deliberate. I can forgive inadvertent, and even accept that some truths might be too personally indicting to own up to in either public or private, but if these appear to be the steady diet, all credibility escapes me then. I cannot comprehend either the misrepresentations or the motives of the messenger, except to presume the latter to be something considerable South of honorable.

Our administration incapable of administering anything also seems to be actively proving that it cannot tell an honest truth about anything. Its news conferences seem especially organized to prevent any news from occurring. They increasingly seem to be designed to either amplify that day’s fresh bald-faced lies and/or provide some much-needed distraction from whatever catastrophe might actually be happening. Truth seems like an unwelcomed stranger there, occasionally appearing in some reporter’s question only to be vehemently shamed back into humiliated silence. How dare anyone attempt to hold our incumbent accountable for anything? I mean, he’s THE PRESIDENT, even if only in name, while you, lowly reporter, barely qualify for the credentials you’re holding. Shame on you for expecting an honest answer to an innocently posed question! Shouldn’t you have learned better by now?

The press corps only rarely presses their points, having learned that the press secretary, let alone the incumbent and his lowly cabinet members, always respond poorly to anything even distantly resembling a well-formed question. The purpose of these events seems to have become the spreading of as much darkness as possible, rather than allowing even the faintest light to be cast against any current controversy or issue. The administration that still can’t administer anything attempts to inform by Pavlovian means, through strong negative feedback and the ringing of hypnotizing bells. Yes, they are heading to Hell with handbaskets blazing, but they still pretend to be observing the usual and customary rituals of an administration intending to administer something, without, of course, apparently ever actually intending to properly administer anything.

My head spins. My senses seem to be continually resetting their balance. I forget before I remember that the incoming information I’m receiving is very likely always reversed. This boy reliably cries, “Wolf,” more steadfastly declared than wolves ever once appeared. It’s all illusion, though it’s hardly magic. It’s poison, just that simple. My attempts to translate it into truth, into anything useful for navigation, might distract me from a deeper reality trying to catch my attention. This administration, incapable of administering anything, has earned its irrelevance. What urge propels me to continually attempt to make sense of what might just be absolute nonsense? There might be no resolution to the garbled messages. To attempt translation might only prove to be a perhaps terminal distraction. There might not be any deeper significance to what was always just irrelevant. This administration cannot administer any more than it can even conceive of committing a truth, even a tiny one. It was never self-aware enough to make such distinctions. They only understand self-preservation, and they will pose anything as their stand-in for truth if they believe it might save their sorry asses. They’re sunk.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #EndDays, #PureSchmaltz