'Lessons' by Justin Torres

1. WE WANTED MORE

We wanted more. We knocked the butt ends of our forks against the table, tapped our spoons against our empty bowls; we were hungry. We wanted more volume, more riots. We turned up the knob on the TV until our ears ached with the shouts of angry men. We wanted more music on the radio; we wanted beats, we wanted rock. We wanted muscles on our skinny arms. We had bird bones, hollow and light, and we wanted more density, more weight. We were six snatching hands, six stomping feet; we were brothers, boys, three little kings locked in a feud for more.

When it was cold, we fought over blankets until the cloth tore down the middle. When it was really cold, when our breath came out in frosty clouds, Manny crawled into bed with Joel and me.

‘Body heat,’ he said.

‘Body heat,’ we agreed.

We wanted more flesh, more blood, more warmth.

When we fought, we fought with weapons – boots and garage tools, snapping pliers – we grabbed at whatever was nearest and we hurled it through the air; we wanted more broken dishes, more shattered glass. We wanted more crashes.

And when our Paps came home, we got spankings. Our little round butt cheeks were tore up: red, raw, leather-whipped. We knew there was something on the other side of pain, on the other side of the sting. Prickly heat radiated upward from our thighs and backsides, fire consumed our brains, but we knew that there was something more, some place our Paps was taking us with all this. We knew, because he was meticulous, because he was precise, because he took his time.

And when our father was gone, we wanted to be fathers. We hunted animals. We drudged through the muck of the creek, chasing down bullfrogs and water snakes. We plucked the baby robins from their nest. We liked to feel the beat of tiny hearts, the struggle of tiny wings. We brought their tiny animal faces close to ours.

‘Who’s your daddy?’ we said, then we laughed and tossed them into a shoebox.

Always more, always hungrily scratching for more. But there were times, quiet moments, when our mother was sleeping, when she hadn’t slept in two days, and any noise, any stair creak, any shut door, any stifled laugh, any voice at all, might wake her – those still, crystal mornings, when we wanted to protect her, this confused goose of a woman, this stumbler, this gusher, with her backaches and headaches and her tired, tired ways, this uprooted Brooklyn creature, this tough talker, always with tears when she tells us she loves us, her mixed-up love, her needy love, her warmth – on those mornings, when sunlight found the cracks in our blinds, and laid itself down in crisp strips on our carpet, those quiet mornings, when we’d fixed ourselves oatmeal, and sprawled on to our stomachs with crayons and paper, with glass marbles that we were careful not to rattle, when our mother was sleeping, when the air did not smell like sweat or breath or mould, when the air was still and light, those mornings, when silence was our secret game and our gift and our sole accomplishment – we wanted less: less weight, less work, less noise, less father, less muscles and skin and hair. We wanted nothing, just this, just this.

One Square Mile of Earth

word of the day

pith·y  (pth)
adj. pith·i·er, pith·i·est
1. Precisely meaningful; forceful and brief: a pithy comment.
2. Consisting of or resembling pit

Goodnight Wolverine

Len Lesser dies at 88

Fruit + Pants = Fun

If wes anderson made spiderman?

Simon Armitage reads 'An Accommodation' from Seeing Stars

Dramatic Cat

Larry the new cat at No.10

boo boo boo!!!! ER:the game this would complete our lives ha ha

poem of the day

The song of the Battery Hen by Edwin Brock

We can't grumble about accommodation:
we have a new concrete floor that's
always dry, four walls that are
painted white, and a sheet-iron roof
the rain drums on. A fan blows warm air
beneath our feet to disperse the smell
of chicken shit and, on dull days
fluorescent lightening sees us.

you can tell me: if you come by
the north door, I am in the twelfth pen
on the left hand side of the third row
from the floor; and in that pen
I am usually the middle one of three.
But even without directions, you'd
discover me. I have the same orange-red
comb, yellow beak and auburn
feathers, but as the door opens and you
hear above the electric fan a kind of
one word wail, I am the one
who sounds loudest in my head.

Listen. Outside this house there's an
orchard with small moss-green apple
trees; beyond that, two fields of
cabbages; then on the far side of
the road, a broiler house. Listen:
one cockerel grows out of there, as
tall and proud as the first of the hour of the sun.
Sometimes I stop cackling with the others
to listen, and wonder if he hears me.

The next time you come here, look for me.
Notice the way I sound inside my head.
God made us all differently,
And blessed us with this expensive home.

quote of the day

"If you don't stand for something, you will fall for anything." - Malcolm X

Don't miss the sizzling meat-packed sensation that is Bob's Burgers

starts tuesday night on E4, from the guys who made home movies.

PIXAR ZOETROPE

NIC CAGE MATRIX

Word of the Day: Peta-Flop

Peta-Flop
A petaflop is a measure of a computer's processing speed and can be expressed as a thousand trillion floating point operations per second.

FLOPS are floating-point operations per second. Floating-point is considered to be a method of encoding real numbers within the limits of finite precision available on computers.

Using floating-point encoding, extremely long numbers can be handled relatively easily. A floating-point number is expressed as a basic number, an exponent, and a number base which is usually ten but may also be 2.

Listen to the New Akron/Family Album Now

Listen

S/T II: The Cosmic Birth and Journey of Shinju TNT

S/T II: The Cosmic Birth and Journey of Shinju TNT

S/T II: The Cosmic Birth and Journey of Shinju TNT

Akron/Family

Akron/Family

Akron/Family

Now time for a lesson in tea...

..............................BLUE MONK.