Corrugated
Boxes are magical. As a kid, I transformed empty cereal boxes into buildings at the kitchen table. The arrival of a new appliance provided a core component, like the living module of a space station, to an impromptu basement hideout constructed along with blankets and chairs. It would last until the walls began to bend and sag from our rumblings and battles. Last week, I unceremoniously flattened several boxes that had safely conveyed my purchases from IKEA to home and, before that, undoubtedly from somewhere half-way around the world where they were assembled. Dismantling their complicated tucks and folds was like undoing complicated origami that protected the product without the need for tape or Styrofoam. Unboxing it down felt like diminishing its value, not liberating it, as if its purest state was when it was not installed in my apartment, but cleverly and snugly tucked in its container. Conversely, oversized Amazon boxes thoughtlessly convey small items that were once brought home in a bag. Apparently, however, the consumption of cardboard has declined slightly over the last few years and recycling rates have increased making it the most reused material. Design, engineering, and still too much extractive waste makes for a complex mix like with so many other things. As much as I might year for it, there is no pure land. As I turn on my new lamp and place a drink on the new side table, I am awestruck by the fathomless consumption in which I participate, but also see and try to appreciate the glimmers of hope.
