Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Huri Kanai's LiveJournal:

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Sunday, October 25th, 2009
6:15 pm	Want Today I realized that nobody cares what I want. Not even me. I'm just spinning plates to try to keep everyone else happy. Whose wants am I most capable of fulfilling? Certainly not my own. I will never play another note. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, September 14th, 2009
8:10 pm	Fight Club (Comment on this)
Sunday, September 6th, 2009
11:51 am	Faith The Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Santa Clause, and God, all went in one fell swoop. Christmas came, and all of the presents from "Santa" were the same ones hidden in the back of the closet since November. That was when I realized. There is a huge conspiracy to make you believe that life is more wonderful than it actually is. Eventually, most grownups will come clean about the Tooth Fairy, but they stick to their guns when it comes to the Bible. Never mind all of the other fantastic cock-and-bull, that you are expected to stop believing in at some point, realizing that magic isn't real. You are expected to put away your imaginary friends, even as you let Jesus into your heart as your own personal savior. I read the Bible, and books on dinosaurs, and physics, and robots, and dragons, and ghosts, and Greek and Egyptian mythology, and at a very young age, was able to separate books into two categories: Fiction and non-fiction. I failed to see the distinction between Cinderella and Genesis. Most of what happens in "The Good Book" is just plain impossible, and the events that are plausible seemed horrific. A lot of stones got thrown at people. The God that the Bible described was nothing like the God my preacher grandfather spoke of. The God of the Bible is petty, insecure, and violent, ready to smite any who offer less than total devotion to Him, or devotion in any form other than the prescribed fashion. Preacher Man spoke of a loving, forgiving God, ever-present, all-knowing. What a wonderful security blanket? You may not know what's going to happen, or what it all means, but Someone does. "God has a plan. And He loves you very much." What is God's plan for the starving, the stillborn, the insane, the criminal? How can He allow us "free will," and still know what's going to happen? People get sick and die when He "calls them to his kingdom," but what of the murdered? Is it free will or God that decides when you go? Why, Mr. Preacher Man, do you lock your car doors, and buckle your seat belt? I could tell when adults tried to pull the wool over my eyes. I knew when they were lying, the look they had in their eye when they told me of magic swords, talking trees, winged horses, like they were getting away with something. What a foolish little boy to believe all that hogwash! But, I never did. It made me sad when they would speak of God. The glint of knowing mischief vanished from their eyes, replaced by solemn conviction. They really believed their own bullshit. And just like that, there I was, standing three and a half feet tall, secretly looking down on this sixty-year-old boy who is too afraid to stop believing in fairy tales. (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 5th, 2009
8:35 pm	Pittsburgh, 1988 We were in a new house, in a new city, but I just didn't care anymore. Even then, I knew I was too young to be missing so much. Houses huddled together, climbing the hills, dark stone and brick swallowed by deep green. The sidewalks are narrow, pushed against the rolling streets, and the sunsets are red with soot. The familiar black of night is flooded with sodium vapor orange. I was supposed to start school soon, but I missed some arbitrary cut off date, and was already beyond the kindergarten curriculum of shapes and letters and numbers. I spent my time alone reading books about science. I spent a lot of time alone. They put me straight into first grade, and everyone already knew each other from last year. I always finished my tests first, never had to "sound out" words on the blackboard, and never gave a wrong answer when the teacher called on me. They stared at me, except during recess. During recess, no one looked at me. I walked home alone, climbed the tree out front, high enough to be hidden, and sat with one of my books. I stared past the pages, the words blurring with tears. I cried a lot for a boy. I still do. But, in my tree, I thought I was safe. I thought I was alone. "Hey! Boy!" A little blonde girl called up from the base of the tree, as if "Boy" was my name. I wasn't crying hard, and had gotten good at hiding it by then, anyway. "You're new," she stated matter of factly, as if I needed to be told. "Wanna play?" I knew it would be easier to just give in, rather than to explain why, no, I don't want to play. "OK." "What's your name?" "****." "My name's Marrissa. Let's go!" And just like that, she took off, over the hill. "Hey, wait," I started, but it was too late, and she was out of earshot. I thought about not following her, but I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I left my book in the crook of a branch, jumped down, and dragged my feet up the hill. I didn't want another friend. I failed to see the point, but she didn't. She let her barefoot soul shine bright enough for the both of us, made me smile despite myself. Her face lit up everytime she saw me, and when I would ring her doorbell, she'd come screaming down the stairs, as if I were her very own, brand new pony. She made it really hard to not feel good about myself. We played in her back yard, a knight, and a princess, fighting dark in the name of light, storming invisible castles, taming furry, tail wagging dragons. We mixed potions from shampoo bottles, and cast spells with sidewalk chalk. "Oh, save me, save me! An evil wizard has trapped me in his castle! Only a kiss can set me free!" Her eyes were closed, and her face was mashed against the chain link fence, pinned by magical forces. I dropped to my knees, and kissed her lips through the fence. Her eyes shot open, but we didn't stop. Our lips lingered for what felt like minutes, as we stared directly into each others eyes. "Why'd you do that?" "You told me to." "Yeah, but I didn't think you really would. It was just pretend..." I started turning bright red. "I'm sorry." "You don't have to be sorry. I liked it." We never got sick of kissing each other. When my baby brother was born, she fawned over me, as if it were a great accomplishment on my part. "You're a big brother now, you have to take care of him." Then, it was time to leave again. She cried, and cried, more panicked and desperate than I had seen anyone before, or since. I didn't cry. She begged for me to stay between sobs, and I think it only made her sob harder to see me so stoic. She gave me one of her barrettes and kissed me goodbye. (Comment on this)
Friday, September 4th, 2009
11:13 pm	Omaha, 1986 We moved into a new house, with clean new bricks, and expansive, featureless, white Sheetrock walls. Everything for miles is flat and open, and the houses do as much to disturb the uniformity of the green below as the clouds do for the blue above. There aren't as many trees here, and no tall buildings. Everything seems far away. The earth feels huge. A girl my age lived next door. Her name was Sarah, and I couldn't pronounce my R's, so I called her Sawah, but it was OK, because she couldn't pronounce the R in my name, either. We played together every day, and whoever woke first would go to the others house for a wake up call. Her parents were college professors, and she was really smart for her age, like me, and we spent a lot of time just sitting around and talking. How much could 5 year-olds talk about? We were precocious philosophers. We talked about logic, and morality, magic and science, cartoon shows, and sometimes even love. We were constantly trying to break it down, figure it out. What about fate? Do you think what's supposed to happen always happens? What's supposed to happen? How do you figure that one out? We'd sneak off to find secluded places to talk, and sometimes we'd play doctor. She was the first girl I saw naked. A couple of years later, my family left, and this time, I knew what it meant. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, September 3rd, 2009
10:01 am	Des Moines, 1982 We lived in an American four square, in a quiet neighborhood, with green lawns and sidewalks, barbecues and bicycles. We had a swing set in back, and flowers lining the walk. I used to play with the little Mexican girl across the street. Her name was Libra, and she always had a Kool-Aid mustache, and smelled like fresh laundry. When no one was looking, we'd tear the flowers from their stems and throw them at each other, like a psychedelic snowball fight, but the wind would catch them, and they never hit their mark. Our mothers would find the mess and scold us, but when they left, we would sit on the porch stairs with American cheese and juice boxes, talking about how much fun that was. One day we left. I was too young to understand what it really meant, but my mom took me across the street, to say goodbye to Libra. She held my hand and rang the doorbell, but no one ever answered. I came back years later, and the swing set was gone, and the porch stairs were cracked. The house across the street had boards over the windows. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, August 30th, 2009
8:26 am	Not California My mom comes home from work, to find me smoking cigarettes and reading on the front porch. "Heya, sweetie," she says, but when my eyes raise from my book to meet hers, she can see that there is nothing behind them. Her boy is somewhere else. The warmth in her own eyes staggers for a moment, but she slyly grins, and whispers, "Wanna smoke a bowl? And finish our books together?" "Shit, why not," I sigh, feeling, for some reason, defeated. I lay down my book, and we head inside, upstairs, to my brother's room. As much as we would love to smoke on the porch, this is simply Not California, and we all prefer to keep our secrets behind locked doors, these days. No more smoking in the park. My mom's jar is filled with the only medicine readily available in these parts, Mexican brick weed, so full of seeds, and crushed within an inch of its life, that once you break it up, and pack a bowl fat enough to do anything, it costs as much as the good shit, but tastes like airline food, and turns your eyes pink. We aren't back to reading our books for any longer than ten minutes before she starts babbling. This was just an excuse to have a conversation without having to make eye contact. "You know, there's that art show going on tonight, down at that little tattoo shop, The Pink Elephant? Well, do you remember me telling you about Angela? My best friend from work? I mean, she used to work with me. But, she's about your age, which is kind of funny. Anyway, she's going to be showing some art there, tonight. And I thought it'd be really great for you to meet her, I really think you'd hit it off. And, her husband is cool, too. He's got a binary code tattoo around his wrist, and..." "Yeah, Mom, I'm not feeling very social right now. It's kind of been an effort to smile lately, and I'd rather not have to fake it tonight." "Five dollar all you can drink bee-eer," she sort of sings. I place my finger on the line I'm reading, so that I may search her face for any signs of trickery. "For real?" She cracks up, and for a moment, I'm not sure if it is because she is pulling my leg, or because she is so thoroughly amused by my dedication to cheap beer. "Yeah, and your dad can't go, but I really wanted to go, and I don't want to go alone, and I just thought it'd be fun..." I smile for the first time in days, and it is slow and dry. "You had me at beer." The tattoo shop is down Ingersoll, about a mile, and tonight, past one of the many advertiser supported block parties that infest the Iowa summer weekends, and my dad drops us off on his way to what will surely turn out to be another fruitless business meeting. It is next to what passes for a biker bar in this town, and the strange mix of leather vests over leathery skin, next to the pale, overly perforated, faux indie, Hot Topic goers, is sickeningly comforting to me. We walk up to the counter to buy our bottomless red solo cups of beer, and behind the bar, a pleasantly round girl, with credibly fat, dark dreadlocks, a lip ring, and unfortunate nautical star tattoos, smiles coyly at me, and I feel sick. She is like a strange, tasteless incarnation of someone I used to know. My mom opts for a bottomless glass of wine, and by the end of the night, her cheeks are red, and her teeth are grey. We weave through the crowd, toward the back, to share in the wallflower act that I inherited from her. I quickly drink my beer, eying the art on the walls; zombies, penises, and oil reproductions of cult movie stills. Various regurgitations of old, established, well accepted forms of rebellion against some undefined concept. Something about this scene reminds me of a civil war reenactment. We are surrounded by costumed figures, masquerading as rebel fighters, from another time. I have already seen enough, and I go back to the bar for my first refill. "Another?" The dreadlocked bartender raises an overplucked eyebrow, as if we share some secret. I nod with a quick detached smile as I break eye contact to scan the room for anything that won't remind me of something else, but she seems unfazed as she attempts to display her wares, bending at the hip to fill my cup from the keg. Bouncing to attention, she slides me my cup filled with mostly foam, and her pushup bra has her tits trained on me like loaded weapons. "Here ya are, sweetie!" She actually has her head cocked, like in a senior yearbook picture. "Thanks." I disappear into the back, futilely attempting to escape this horrendous mindfuck. I find my mom chatting with an unusually normal looking girl, apparently uncostumed. She is behind a table filled with tiny paintings of what it might look like during Dia de Los Muertos, where the wild things are. Monsters with lollypops, flowered skeletons, and robots with ice cream cones are frozen mid dance. "Oh, I love your hair, it's so cute," she is telling my mom as I walk up. "Angela, this is my son, ****." "Hi, nice to meet you," I muster a warmish smile and shake her hand, as she she scans my face with eyes that are a familiar shade of brown, one that makes my stomach feel cold. Her pupils are dilated, and her eyelids soften as she seems to recognize my forced cheer. "It's nice to meet you," she says, somewhat knowingly. My mother must talk to her about me. Fucking fantastic. She can see me squirming, and handles it tastefully, turning back to my mom. "When did you get it cut?" "Maybe a week ago? ****, when did you get your hair cut?" The spotlight's back on me. "Um, monday?" "Oh, you got your hair cut, too?" The tiny artist suspiciously eyes my ridiculously short hair. "Yeah, still getting used to it. It was a little longer," and I motion to my shoulder. "Oh, wow," her eyes widen, "drastic change." My mom leans in to her, and whispers, loud enough for me to hear, "He's going through a break-up." Angela eyes me for a short awkward pause, and quips, "Yeah, those are always hard," and continues to talk to my mom about her husband, and daughter, and coming baby. "Yep, twelve weeks!" She is glowing and it makes me feel empty. In reality, only my cup is, so I maneuver through the poseurs, back to the bar, to get another refill of old memories. I take it outside for a cigarette, and linger on the fringe of the crowd of smokers. Guys are eying their hair in the dark glass window, and girls are trying to look disinterested as they reapply their lip gloss. I would give anything to have her here right now. To witness the ridiculousness of every detail, see all of it in the skewed way that only we see. Saw. She's gone, now. And so am I. (Comment on this)
Monday, March 12th, 2007
12:07 pm	Rave On (Comment on this)
Thursday, March 8th, 2007
11:36 am	NWA (Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 6th, 2007
4:21 pm	Gun Control (Comment on this)
Saturday, March 3rd, 2007
12:04 pm	Hip Hop (Comment on this)
Thursday, March 1st, 2007
4:51 pm	Jaunty Tune (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 28th, 2007
2:24 pm	Fungus (Comment on this)
1:45 pm	Research (Comment on this)
Thursday, February 22nd, 2007
3:47 pm	Drug Bust (Comment on this)
2:50 pm	Dihydrogen Monoxide (Comment on this)
1:33 pm	Tom Mabe (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 21st, 2007
7:11 pm	Fix You (Comment on this)
5:52 pm	Andrew Bird (Comment on this)
5:52 pm	Jack Kerouac (Comment on this)