We speak today of a size, at center lies the size "Big" and it is the original at the center. Against all other it pushes, prods, forces the originality of Big. We further know that around this center prances a great weltering herd of subordinates some barely born others thrust, tumescent, into abeyance gazing at the Big. The Big rules the small. Big masters thought, masters conduct, masters finance. Big money big deeds, big mind, big bodies. At first we might supplant the Big, tiny gestures, small desires, little contradictions--but it has armored itself well, adopting the ease of singular, small transactions to deflect that inversion. Big relishes this mastery and negotiates with you to give up, surrender even your (only, unutterable, utterly unthinkable) reaction, by saying a small number "47 dollars" and to swallow your contrary plea, declares that you might enter the court of the Big even if you are small; robs the margin of inverting power, though thereby risks an opening in the armor. Perhaps it was wrong, Big, in thinking it owned superordinance of all things. Thus in its mastery crude mammalian fact rears up, squealing and squalling, to slip under the feet of Big and small an Other, a subordinate, the nearly human rooting animal form that is both beloved for its size and dreaded for same. Suddenly the Big has begun to be marked, unstable.
We're witness to this, a simple parergon with two swatches of white tape that attacks and soothes all at once, a kind of swinish palliative for the wretched middle and small and none-of-the-above that at once puts Big out of its misery and slips us into a cooling state of differance, free at last to think. We bear mute photographic witness to the beginnings of inversion and joyful supplementation: two different Trumps trumped by differance, one Ray Kroc sous rature.
Murkily, we have learned that something is beginning to deconstruct the mental environment of Northeast Minneapolis.