Boxing Boxes

I was only nine when I got the box, though I cannot remember from where. It might have been a sidewalk, a store, or even in my home. What mattered is it was there, and for that, it was to be cherished and loved. It was a box as boxes mostly go, all box-like and brown, with a delicate paper wrap that suggested a cautious approach. And I was happy to oblige. So searching out I found a box, and used that box to box my box, and so it was, and so it began.

The second box was like the first, only large enough to hold it. With that, I figured, my box could finally rest. But this second box soon declared the same unusual beauty as the first, a beauty that demanded protection, it seemed, and I knew just the fix. The decision to box the second box was made on the second day with no apparent dispute. So it was boxed and so I felt eased, until something strange crossed me, for the third box, I should have guessed, would be just like its kin. In this moment I came to the realization that it was the protection that was the beauty of it. Awareness of full implications aside, it was a feeling that no matter how many times I added a new box, that box would always, inevitably, become beautiful to me. This is all to say that the first box did indeed hold something incredibly dear to me, and to protect it would be an act of beauty, I knew, and if the beauty was always worth protecting, well, you can begin to see the predicament I was in.

Adults found it “weird” or even “mildly concerning” at times, and that “we’re sure he’ll grow out of it at some point”, but I found the task of boxing my boxes came with relative ease. So it continued that way, with each new box added when deemed appropriate and necessary. It was not an impulsive drive either, it couldn't be, for life as a nine-year old only took you so far in the world, at least where box accrual was concerned. Some were found at school, others donated by amused parents of friends, and one time, when on the run from neighborhood bullies, I found a massive one behind a laundromat. It was a little slow going at first, but by the time I turned sixteen my box had grown many times, bigger than me, even. It turned into a spectacle as more people began to notice. I would be lying if I said I didn’t take some small amount of enjoyment from that--from the spectacle of it all--but I knew the spectacle was just further cause for protection, it was not something to get lost in, so I continued my work.

At a certain point it becomes rather difficult to continue boxing your boxes, I realized at twenty, all of a sudden. The scale of it all becomes downright unruly. Boxes are made to carry things, and things, as it turns out, only come in sizes so big. But my work was far from done, so my boxes became of personal craft, their elements collected from the people and places I had come to know. It became almost mechanical, this boxing of boxes, with every three or so months bringing a new layer. From car-sized to truck-sized to modest-yacht-sized, I never once failed to muster the necessary materials. I would often simply buy things, just for the box. Over time people began to take less notice, which was just fine by me, because as far as I saw it, whatever was going on here was now between me and my boxes. Yes, it is true that by this point there was little to no joy present in the fundamental nature of my work, but despite this, I felt a strange pride in my boxes, indeed, of this thing I had created. This, of course, is when everything began to change.

I cannot say exactly when it started but it shook me nonetheless, because I began to notice other people, too, putting boxes into boxes. Well, this is just clear plagiarism, I thought to myself. And here they were, seeming to be everywhere I looked; neighbors, colleagues, even family. Some of their boxes were nearly as big as mine! I had been so absorbed in my work that I was oblivious to the weird movement I had apparently launched. It spread like a viral load seemingly overnight, with people all over suddenly revealing their own boxular undertakings. The topic of boxes began creeping into everyday conversation, usually in an offhand way and with no sense of reference or homage, almost as if everyone had, in unison, come up with the idea all on their own. Sometimes people would even offer up little sermon-ish commentaries on the particulars of box boxing to me. Yes, me, the one who started this damned thing. I knew that trying to stake some sort of claim on the birth of this whole idea was by now completely out of the question, and frankly, I wasn’t even sure if it was my idea to begin with anymore.

It became something of a national phenomenon, with people, in a funny way, existing in differing stages of relation to their box. For most, the concept seemed to reach its natural conclusion around the point when the box had been successfully iterated into a size larger than themselves, a size, perhaps, that allowed them to feel an earned sense of accomplishment. Other people hid their box, or at least preferred to not call attention to it, believing that it was some flawed abstraction of belief or misplaced sentiment and as a result was undeserving of any tangible concessions. For a certain unfortunate few, the activity of boxing boxes was compulsory, sanctioned by the likes of manic parents and other similarly pressurizing forces. These folks were to be pitied indeed, for many others seemed to revel in the whole idea of it, to reference and point out their boxes whenever the opportunity appeared, even while responding with agreeable nods and feigned concerns over the now supposedly universal sense of emptiness surrounding the whole thing. And I can remember one time being particularly dismayed when in a bookstore I discovered that “Boxes'' had not only become its own dedicated section but was now in fact the biggest section, with each book containing unique introductory chapters on why they’re not like all the other box books.

It was inescapable, this cultural embrace of the boxes. Yet over time it seemed as though most people, at least in their isolated opinions, were becoming more disillusioned with it all, quietly longing to stop but not knowing how. Even the lower-stakes crowd began to develop a vague feeling of resentment toward their boxes, frustrated at their inability to just throw the ugly thing out and be done with it already. The boxes had, by this point, gained a weird sort of legacy status within the broader culture. But this was all simply my perspective on the matter, of course, and I invite you to not hold back on casting whatever doubts you feel as necessary, because I suspect they are the very same doubts that were starting to work their way into my own understanding. But I’m getting a little ahead of the story now, so let me continue.

I was thirty years old when I made my last box. I put everything I had left into it, emotionally, and just about everything my bank account would allow, physically. I labored for days. Once my work was finished I rappelled down the side of what can only be described as the biggest and most formidable box ever created to date. It took nearly twenty paces just to get a decent look at the thing. And there it was, the same box it had always been. And there I was, sweat on brow, looking over the newest display of my fanaticism and feeling something completely new towards my box, the only thing left to feel after exhausting all other hopes and expectations, reasonable or not, that this was feeding into some greater purpose or was ever even worthwhile at all. The feeling is this: disgust. It came abrupt and unexpected, hitting me like a brick of neural ordnance that nearly took my legs out. This was never my thing and I was stupid to ever think that. It was so obvious now. In fact, any cursory glance through history proves it. Go on and look. Books, poetry, photographs of world leaders, ancient scribery, pyramidic wonders. It's all there, and once you see it you see it everywhere. This was nothing new. The only difference now is that we have so much damned stuff to build with. So then what, ultimately, had I been trying to achieve all those years? Was I to just continue this lifestyle until I died? Would I box my box to the moon? Would that finally be enough? Is there even such a thing as enough?

Before you start to pity me, though, let me just say that I deserved what I felt. Redemptively speaking I was nowhere on the map. I had fully reduced myself to that of someone who charts value in others entirely according to the status of their box. Someone who crosses paths with you on the sidewalk and can hardly manage a hello because I am too preoccupied with thoughts concerning your box and how much bigger or smaller or better or worse it might be from my own. If your box was huge like mine, I hated you. If your box was simple and small, I hated you. If you didn’t have a box at all, I especially hated you. I was that monster, spiritually crushed under the weight of my own box. How it tormented me! And what is this self-induced torment but a rigid contract with some future confrontation? I will not waste your time by listing out the entirety of thoughts I had during this period, just know that they were numerous and banal and contrived indeed.

And it is presently that I find myself feeling an intense embarrassment over this whole thing, please forgive me. But what was in that first box? Ah, I cannot remember! It must have been something sweet indeed, whatever caused that pain, and fearing that pain to be terminal, I set off one evening under a cerebral sky, box in tow against heavy strain. With great effort we plodded down streets, up hills, across freeway overpasses, and through a wooded park where an older man said hello, I think to the box. Further into the hilly outskirts of the park, we came to rest in a clearing where the sun was low and pleasant. My back was killing me by this point. And I laughed. And I looked at my box, my mighty box of boxes, towering over me with infinite patience, and we sat with the broadleaf and oak as the evening’s last breeze flew by.

That is where you were, in that spot where the light was still warm. You asked if I was destroying my box. I said I was. I asked if you wanted to help. You said you would. And when we were done we gathered the scraps and put them into a box small enough to fit in the cupboard above the fridge, where it still rests today, picked at by moths, until some troubling time may call it back again.