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I’ve been lucky and my hard work has paid off, as in addition to my assembly line work I have been put in charge of all social media for The Box Factory. Up until now the Twitter account (@TheBoxFactory) has been used primarily as a way to establish and communicate factory culture to the employees, and while this will still be a part of our social media strategy, I hope to add an edge to our branding that will help take us to the next level.
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TheBoxFactory: BREAKING!!!! MASS SHOOTING AT THE BOX BARN!!!
TheBoxFactory: Witnesses say that boxes are covered in blood!!
TheBoxFactory: Although there are MANY disgruntled employees working at the Box Barn, Terrorism is most likely responsible!
TheBoxFactory: Authorities report that all boxes from the Box Barn are now considered potentially lethal!
TheBoxFactory: BOXES FROM THE BOX BARN CAN KILL YOU AND YOUR LOVED ONES!!
TheBoxFactory: As The Box Factory stands against terror, we are now offering a 15% savings on all of our boxes!!
TheBoxFactory: Remember, after the horrors of 9/11 boxes played a vital role in fighting against terrorism!
TheBoxFactory: Boxes, North America’s unsung hero!
TheBoxFactory: Noble Box Factorians, remember to always wash your hands! A clean Box Factory is a happy Box Factory!
TheBoxFactory: To take your mind off the horrors taking place over at the BOX BARN, here’s a vintage Gift Box classic: https://vimeo.com/148932620
TheBoxBarn: @TheBoxFactory There has been no shooting at the Box Barn!! Everything is fine and our boxes are still the best in town!
TheBoxFactory: There goes the “Lyin’ Box Barn” again! Sad.
TheBoxFactory: Blocked.
TheBoxFactory: HACKED EMAIL FROM THE BOX BARN REVEALS IT IS A FRONT FOR A SEX SLAVERY RING!!
TheBoxFactory: 13 YEAR-OLD GIRL SAYS THE BOX BARN FORCED HER TO LIVE IN A SHODDILY MADE BOX AND HAVE SEX WITH OOZY MANAGEMENT!!
TheBoxFactory: Take our fun quiz and answer five easy questions to determine what kind of box you would be!!
TheBoxFactory: MASS SHOOTING NOW REPORTED AT BOX BONANZA! AUTHORITIES BELIEVE IT’S A COORDINATED TERRORIST ATTACK!!!
TheBoxFactory: Remember, The Box Factory is offering up to 15% off selected boxes for all customers effected by terror!!
TheBoxBonanza: @TheBoxFactory There has been no shooting here! You are lying!! You can’t do this!!
TheBoxFactory: Ha! There goes “Crooked Box Bonanza” again! So dishonest!
TheBoxFactory: The “Crooked Box Bonanza” is the real dick in a box!
TheBoxFactory: Love blocking trolls like “Crooked Box Bonanza” and “Lying Box Barn!” Such losers!
TheBoxFactory: The Box Factory condemns terror in all forms! NEVER will one of our boxes be involved in a terror attack!!
TheBoxFactory: The “Freedom Box Factory” only employs “real” North Americans like Billy, and can terminate any of them at a moment’s notice! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKmcs7ygJbs
TheBoxFactory: The “Freedom Box Factory,” making Boxes Great Again!
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They all appear so wealthy and beautiful. Dressed crisply in black and plugged into their iPhones, they move swiftly and with such confident purpose that they seem visitors to this world—weightless, as if they might flicker in the dusk and then simply vanish. But the men who carried all of their possessions in hockey bags on their backs, who had decades of anger and disappointment burned into their features, they seemed weighted and permanent, and they stared like fires at these people streaming by.
Rocks left on the banks of a great river.
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To get around the city I now need to use supplemental oxygen, which means I always have a tank on my back with tubing that leads to my nasal passages. In the stores, some people give me tight, warm smiles, the sort of smiles you see more in the eyes than on the lips. “There but for the grace of God, go I,” these smiles say. And of course, other people notice nothing at all, seeing just a form amongst other forms.
A couple, the only customers at La Hacienda, sat at a big, glowing window table.
She looked wary, as if a naturally defensive manner was built into her character. On the TV show of her life she would have been the sarcastic one, the one who always lived on love’s periphery. He was leaning in toward her, having made his body expansive and noticeable in effort to conceal his verbal insecurity, his fear that he was actually boring. And she was leaning away, as if she couldn’t believe she’d ben trapped by Jerome and his stupid man bun, and while he was talking she was actually composing the story she would tell her friends about this encounter later on, but still, there they were. Just the two of them glowing in their youth, glowing in the dark, glowing like a Christmas display in a window, and I wanted to yell at them, to shake them, “Damn it, fall in love, create a story that will last generations!”
On the street I was trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab. After about 15 minutes a young, college kid in a hoodie showed up beside me. He was so fresh-faced. His smile a simple, uncomplicated thing, his eyes clear. He wanted to get a cab for me. He wanted to run blocks to find one. He wanted to kick through the slush and snow and bring this good deed home to me. He wanted to find the lost dog, he wanted to clear a path for everybody in need, to be that light in the dark, that thing you remember when you think of Christmas.
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As a child it’s a time of unquestioned magic. Delirious with excitement, we charged about like maniacs while wonderful things fell all around us. Time had no meaning. Everything and everybody was imperishable and glowing, weightless.
As adults, now visited by disappointment and loss, sidetracked and mortal, Christmas has a depth that often feels like weight. Everything ages– we miss people and sometimes, we miss the people we were, too. Vulnerable in ways we never quite imagined, we watch the children now, and knowing that all things change, a subtle undercurrent of nostalgia and melancholy runs through the holiday, and even as we’re living the moment, we’re aware of its passing.
This year, our families were with us, intact and safe.
It’s a stunningly beautiful thing, that, and to consider for one moment all the small, unseen miracles that took place in order to keep us together through the years, distance and unimaginable fires is to be filled with respect and gratitude.
At any rate, all families are miracles, and on this Christmas there were probably around 20 of us sitting around a long, make-shift table. Our two nephews are about 11 and 13 now, and we’ve had the privilege of being close to them and watching them grow.
They look like angels. Talented and mysterious, they hover on a periphery as if a beautiful visitation.
Their parents told us that they wanted to do a small performance after dinner, and when the time came they quietly, shyly, even, stood at the end of the table– one wearing the fur hunting cap that he got for Christmas, the other with bracelets of candy on his thin wrists. Then, after glancing at one another and nodding, they began to snap their fingers in rhythm and sing.
I had never heard them sing before. I’d never even thought about it. And so, right there, something I had never considered, something I had never imagined, was taking place before me. And they sang beautifully. It was utterly stunning, as dislocating and awesome a discovery as if suddenly finding a majestic snow-capped mountain where the 7-11 had always been. It was, I thought, magic.
They were singing the old John Lennon song “Beautiful Boy,” and they were singing it to Jones, our four month old baby boy. They weren’t up there looking for attention or validation, they weren’t pushed by their parents. They were self-directed and acting out of love. It was a pledge, I think, a rite of welcome. Jones would always be protected and loved by everybody in that room and the family beyond. It was such a pure and astonishing moment, so holy, that it felt like time expanded in all directions and was really just one big circle that contained us all.
It was not an easy year for us, but Lord, we were so lucky, and there was Jones, sitting on the lap of his beaming mother, and all around him, for as many years as could be counted, family, each one a loving star in his cosmos.
