Boxfirmations, 2026

Boxfirmations, 2026

Another one, strip-mining the thin sliver of text off corrugated depths. When I talk about the text on boxes I talk about the mingling language of seduction and violence. They congregate and stand at odds, about-face every which flap, every this-side-up and this-side-down. There is always a right way to do something to a box. Or not do. Do not crush, do not stack, do not cut. One must keep refrigerated, handle like ice cream, handle like eggs. Everything is fragile, always, even the really rock hard steely stuff: once it goes in the box it assumes a preciousness and fragility like glass. There are knives everywhere on the box, blades with short handles, and there are hands. There are lots of box bodies lifting with their legs and not their backs. Group lift preferable, sometimes required. The most amazing part of box language is that, if you are to believe the box, every single unique box definitely holds the most amazing precious wonderful cargo. The ultimate, the sweetest, the sexiest broccoli, the most impossibly premium protective pleasurable carseat or gas grill, the freshest, goodest, greatest, radiant, premium crinkle cut potato fries. Et cetera. It is a dizzying alphabet of desire.