Semi-Daily Scribbles

Len broke furniture to learn the mysteries of craftsmanship. TV how-to's didn't cut it. Diagrams made him see circles. Len reimagined many objects in his world because efficiency was the name of the game. For example, his pet project was a desk he could write on. Literally. Whatever he etched across the beech wood surface would be recorded by a precise, high-powered motion sensor. Every swipe of the thumb and poke of the pinky was captured and stored in the desk's memory. How to retrieve the input, however, was the tricky part which kept Len up at night. In the wee hours, when Len's awareness was at its sharpest and he couldn't think straight, Len saw life as a net. Constrictive, coarse, and intended to keep everyone in the same pen. Len wished he could stretch his legs and really get a feel for the universe. His most promising theories presented themselves after he'd smashed and refastened a refrigerator or step machine in the pre-dawn stillness. His agreement with failure was he wouldn't take it personally. Len would be the first to admit he was nothing more than a walking receptacle for improvement. Len was fine with failure. He even saw a simple beauty in stupidity. But Len could never swallow disappointment. Disappointment was bitter. It was the deep end from which Len swam hard every day to avoid.