Lucas Emil Vorsterman: Jan Lievens (1630/45)

"The meanings could not be clearer if they were written on the mirror he's pretending to peer through."

After an uncertain number of iterations, the speculative might become a certainty, as the previously unknowable slowly becomes routine. So have conspiracy theories gone in what seems in retrospect like a remarkably brief time. It seems like just yesterday, when that certainty still evaded us, when we genuinely felt blindsided by some fresh-ish revelation. We had no idea how low they could go, and we held out for the longest time, hoping that they and we might prove more trustworthy than we all became. It seemed like a game at first, to somehow concoct some fresh worst-case scenario before second-guessing our hard-won earlier conclusions. In the years before Jeffrey Epstein’s suicide became common fiction, we blythely disbelieved most of whatever the vast right-wing conspiracy served up because it beggared belief. Now we can be almost one hundred per cent certain that whatever they declare describes one hundred per cent the opposite of whatever might actually be there. Conspiracy theories have become reliable ConspiratorialCertainties.

Conspiracy theory has become clinical certainty, though the stories still seem to be delivered backwards. So much projection goes into their telling that they almost always amount to confession rather than accusation. The hackneyed “I know you are, but what am I?” has become more than merely a childish chide. It has become what renders a statement right. They might still be capable of swallowing their own bullshit whole, but we’ve moved on into weary acceptance. They cannot seem to prevent themselves from showing these cards. Their artifice might still work magic on their own perceptions, but it’s surely lost on the rest of us. What they perceive as ample justification doesn’t even qualify as fiction for the rest of us now. We’ve developed extremely sensitive sensors and can smell what’s stuck to the bottom of their boots, even when they can’t.

Our Social Media feeds would be impossibly dense were it not for this ever-more sensitive sense capable of sniffing out these pseudo conspiracies. It’s been so long since one wasn’t transparently wrong that we hardly fuss over the most recent discoveries. They might still believe that they’ve successfully fooled everyone again, but they’ve increasingly only fooled themselves. As the depth of their own self-deception deepens, the overall mood within the formerly confusing communication medium lightens. We’re rarely victims of these stories anymore; they seem to bite their authors more than they gnaw on any intended victim. There was a time, not all that long ago, when we were still capable of being turned as a society, as an innocent polity, by what they insisted were well-founded conspiracy theories. They used the term theory unconsciously ironically, and maybe they still haven’t caught on. The rest of us have pretty much moved on.

It’s now considered more patriotic to choose not to tune into the State of the Union Speech, since most well understand that it will not describe the state of any union ever known to man. It will spout caustic fiction, dressed up as if it might have actually happened. Most just look at the messenger and understand he’s a deeply untrustworthy presence. We can safely disregard whatever evidence he insists should convince us. We can confidently discern such differences, even if our providers and governments never manage to create effective barriers to prevent conspiracy theories from disseminating. Our senses seem to have rapidly evolved to become sensitive enough to filter out the worst of them. It no longer holds much in the way of sway over most of us. Once theory becomes clinical certainty, such conspiracies no longer influence anybody but the few remaining dedicated cultists.

It’s remarkable how indifference can heal and how interest can wound. When Social Media was more of a novel presence, most seemed to hold little in the way of immunity to its worst effects. A few years of disappointing practice have left most of us more wary than we were. We grew some scrolling smarts and stopped swallowing so many rubber worms with hooks inside. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me for the ten thousandth time, shame on anybody not tumbling to the presence of a ConspiratorialCertainty. These conspiracies carry a stench, along with a look and a feel. Our incumbent, now a merely hapless presence, reminds us of the game with every proclamation. He serves as the best vaccine against repeated contagion. He’s still blaming Joe Biden for his problems and all the other overused hobgoblins we’ve grown accustomed to hearing him trot out to defend against his own shortcomings. The meanings could not be clearer if they were written on the mirror he’s pretending to peer through.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Unscrolling, #PureSchmaltz