Dear journal,
spit fire

rapping is a lot like firebending. let me explain.

firebending is all about aggressive, syncopated bursts. kick flame to a beat, one you can almost tap your head to. just like a rapper using his voice as a rhythmic instrument, knocking out words in tight sequence, controlling the space between each syllable to maximize their impact.

but the similarities go farther than the time signature, the tempo. if you will kindly recall, by aang’s time the firebending art was a perversion of its earlier form. firebenders were moved by rage, arrogance, hatred. violence is a familiar topic in rap, from biggie fucking you in the ass and throwing you over the bridge to tyler stabbing bruno mars in his goddamn esophagus, rap is rife with conflict.

you almost forget that at the heart of it all was love, the sun, and living in harmony with nature. true firebending is channeled through love of rhythm and movement, and of making peace with the conflicts in your life. you may remember that in order to communicate with the dragons, zuko and aang had to execute a dance in perfect time with their river-like flows, step to each other in symmetry (and accept the history of violence/genocide between their people).

that warm voice still exists in rap; sometimes you just have to go a little more underground, disappear into the wilderness like jeong jeong or iroh. old masters still living in the zulu nation

hip-hop culture can even be seen in the final duel between zuko and azula. unleashing waves of fire and lightning at each other in cascading sheets like a coltrane-style wall of sound, zuko moves in a way that is essentially breakdancing. this is in marked contrast to azula’s disjointed, desperate outbursts, with no clear rhythm.

after all, zuko learned from the sun itself, and azula was just a sucka MC

quantum bullets tunnel through your heart (perverse bayesian poem)

you’ve got a nice posterior
i like the way your gammas spread
before i saw you i knew nothing
you were in uniform

inter-interview vision

dingy interrogation table made for mental gangbanging becomes luxury office desk. chinese guardian lion looks vigilantly over neatly stacked papers. brown carpet with intricate geometrical patterns like a mosque wall effuses out and seems to leak into surrounding furniture. leather-bound chair melts into the hexagonal pattern

i look out the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor window onto the city. walking up to the glass — you’re there too, opaque smile on your face. feeling of comfort.

'we made it'

don’t jump

self-expression can be hard

after all, i’ve never been good with my hands

they have a tendency to break the things that my heart does cradle

stuttering lips don’t let thoughts go without a fight — worthless reassurances and clarifications which obfuscate instead

the foreman is, of course, looking away. figures. perhaps a change in leadership is necessary

bring the motherfucking ruckus?

more like,

bring the motherfucking rainbow

time monsta

when you think about it the phrase ‘time-consuming’ doesn’t make a lot of sense. how do you ‘consume’ time? is it something you get for free with your new dell laptop, something you can buy at walmart for 6.99 a minute? you know, if they sold time at wal-mart, there would probably be a huge line for it - who doesn’t want extra time? people would probably spend more time trying to buy time than they would get by buying time. only the rich would be able to avoid this. go figure

is time a part of your personal brand? is it something you can market, something that makes you unique? is it something that you can put between two pieces of bread and really sink your teeth into? is it something that flashes at you from behind your tv screen and gives you an unrealistic impression of its true nature? does time have sex appeal?

i’d rather be poor anyway

you know,

maybe it wouldn’t be bad just to be a number

there are a lot of numbers out there, everyone could have their own number if they wanted. each person who has ever existed, who ever will exist, could be their unique number. better than knowing 50 johns, 90 michaels, and 32 katies.

each one is different, each one has cool properties. imagine being a mersenne prime. imagine being a twin prime pair with your twin. everyone in your family is a triangular number and has been for centuries. unlikely, but so is living next door to somebody with the same first, middle, and last name as you, which has surely happened.

imagine the humility that this would impart - being number one would be impossible, that person lived millions of years ago. forget about it.

this wouldn’t be a classless society though - surely the perfect numbers would think of themselves as perfect people. assholes

epilogue; you can also encode turing machines into numbers, so you could be a computer too. horoscopes would probably be based on equivalence classes of integers modulo 12.


i cluster all around the center though

large standard deviation

useless data

throw it out


so often i am finding that education boils down to this. you can go and speak w/ a professor, but if you can’t rap w/ him and follow his flow, move with his mind and respond and improvise on his rhythm, you’re shot. as the screenshot would indicate, ‘U rappin’ awful !’

the real moral of the story is that i can be obsessed with things for >10 years

don’t ask me what sort of practical things i’m going to do with my math degree, theaterboy

i’m just trying to keep to my owns, namsayin