Carried Away: The Box
A gentle reader suggest that I have gotten "carried away" on the whole horse thing, and probably in a dozen other earlier posts.
Almost certainly right. Over the top, not funny, and all that.
But I have to admit it pleases me to develop the implications of surreal situations, particularly ones that involve anthropomorphizing animals or objects. I think about them when I drive, or run, and then just have to write them down.
Have you ever thought about what it must be like for the box? The box that plastic trash bags come in, I mean.
That box has contained those bags for months, possibly for years. All folded. Kept in the line, with sharp creases, in perfect order for being removed from their box by someone who wants to take the full bag out of the trash bin, and put in a new, clean, empty bag.
But, at some point, you get down to just a few bags left.
Does the box KNOW? Do the bags begin to taunt the box? They can't know which will be the last bag, because as there are fewer bags there is room to flop around, and the hand may pick this one, or that one....can't tell.
But at some point, there is the end of the caste system, the destruction of the only social order that the bags and the box have ever known. AT SOME POINT, THERE IS JUST ONE BAG LEFT!
And now, surely, the box knows its fate.
The trash bin is full. The guy (should be a guy) pulls the full bag out, ties it up, and places it on the floor to take it outside. Then, he pulls out the last trash bag, puts it in the trash bin, smooths it out.
AND THEN HE TOSSES THE BOX INTO THE BAG!
What is the conversation like? What does the bag say? "How does it feel, you fascist box? Kept us in line all that time, all folded and repressed. Never could stretch our wrinkles or get unfolded with you holding us back. HOW DOES IT FEEL?"
Before long, the box, once the keeper of social order, is covered with turkey guts, coffee grounds, eggshells. No social order, just anarchy, and a smelly one at that. But surrounding it all, the bag, newly elevated to the status of king, constrains and controls all.
The bag fills, and it is taken out to the outside bin, with all of its brothers and sisters. The box is forgotten, empty, useless. Simple refuse, where once it held sway over two dozen bags.
We should have some sort of ceremony, a recognition of the change in the social order. Like when Great Britain left Hong Kong, and there was a transfer of the flags. We should acknowledge that the box is no longer the boss, and the bag is no longer the subaltern.
(See? See what I mean? This is no doubt completely boring. But I find it WONDERFUL!)