The ontario kkkourt of justice is painted with so much yellow. As I left the 15th floor where the crown attorney’s office sat, I found myself in an all yellow elevator with a bored looking special constable. His pants had a thin blue line design down the outside of the leg.
The kkkourt also sits a block or two away from the apartment I’d first moved into five years ago and the second one that I’d been escorted out of by a similarly bored looking special constable two months ago. I realized I’d forgotten to give the keys back and added it to my mental list of to-dos.
I’d stuffed my keffiyeh I usually kept wrapped around my purse inside one of it’s pockets and I anxiously wondered if the cop could see some of it’s tassels poking out. I wondered if he was one of the ones who’d punched me in the chest the year before at that protest outside the museum. He left the yellow elevator into a yellow floor and I was left alone with my shame and cowardice.
All the buzzing of lawyers and accused and accusing dizzied me.
I’m so angry with myself and I’m so tired.
I’m angry that my anger led me there. I’m angry that I was ever angry enough to be angry there. I was angry in a yellow elevator heading down to duty counsel.
The development of the kkkourt was led by EllisDon I don’t know how many years ago. Currently, probably, somewhere someone is protesting EllisDon’s partnership with Israel’s Rafael Advanced Defence Systems Ltd. This is the group that’s behind Isreal’s “Iron Dome” missile technology.
Sometimes when I think of the Iron Dome I imagine it’s a real overhead cover on that country. Sitting in the Duty Counsel’s yellow office I wondered if that dome would be painted the same. I wonder if they protect the same things.
My keffiyeh is red, it was still tucked away in my purse, and it was looking like I wouldn’t get the answers to the questions I’m still looking for. I had to wait another angry agonizing few weeks for my next kkkourt date.
I considered turning my blonde back to black before then because I’d have to go in person. My mom wants me to convince them that I’m whatever normal is. I want to make a better world and give it all to her for free; no crucifix, no prayer.
I was wearing a jacket over my red shirt as it’s off the shoulder and reveals my sun tattoo. Are tattoos normal? The jacket made me sweat.
The thought that I was an open secret pretending that I was known and I was loved numbed me. There were so many people buzzing around me and also none at all.
The building is huge and white where it isn’t yellow with large windows. The floors are ceramic, the walls are ceramic, everything seems to hold a reflection. On my way out, returned to the yellow elevator, there was a mirror and I could only face my back to it.
I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. I don’t think those walls were built to see me clearly, truly. I think they ask I transform into the hypocrisy their system performs. What could they possibly know about me that I didn’t say myself? What guilt could they accuse me of that I don’t already carry packaged in resolution, with love? Show me the mouth of their justice and I’ll show my ass to kiss.
I can’t forgive myself for still being angry there.
Outside, I could still see the yellow walls through the towering windows, there was still some light buzzing inside. I tied my keffiyeh back around my purse and smoked something that wasn’t killing me fast enough. Cross-legged I sat and cried to D’Angelo’s “Prayer”.
I thought of my grandmother and how she passed before I knew to ask her more questions. Like was she ever afraid of herself the way the blind, injured deer fears the hungry bear lurking in the night, breathing with anticipation, delighted by the smell of desperation. Both made infinite by the mundanity of their scene.
A police siren sang as a cruiser rolled down the road behind me.
I wanted to go home suddenly, briefly, and uselessly. I miss myself all the same.