new files on The Green Violin

PDF versions for Green Violin publications are up on the website. Abraham T. Zere’s Anecdotes of Indefinite Anarchy: Dispatches from Eritrea and Nathan Medema’s a ticking does not absolve the bomb. Preview of files:

Abraham T. Zere, Anecdotes of Indefinite Anarchy: Dispatches from Eritrea

Nathan Medema, a ticking does not absolve the bomb

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finalizing Abraham T. Zere’s “Anecdotes of Indefinite Anarchy”

At a total of 165 copies for the first print run, Abraham T. Zere’s “Anecdotes of Indefinite Anarchy: Dispatches from Eritrea” is almost complete. Mail-outs and distribution coming soon. Each one of these little chapbooks has been printed on the Lada of printers, folded and numbered by hand. There are variations of the cover and the interiour graphics, so the copies are unique.

 

publishing soon: Abraham T. Zere’s Anecdotes of Indefinite Anarchy

Forthcoming this month through the Green Violin is Anecdotes of Indefinite Anarchy by Abraham T. Zere. In the texts compiled in Anecdotes of Indefinite Anarchy, Abraham T. Zere writes about Eritrea, one of the most silent countries in the world. When Zere wrote between 2016 and 2017, Eritrea was listed at the bottom of the list for worst country in the world for freedom of press by Reporters Without Borders. Today, little has changed, as it continues to sit at 179 out of 180, just above North Korea in the 2017 review. Since President Isaias Afwerki came to power in 1993, the Eritrean regime under the rule of the People’s Front for Democracy and Justice maintains a strict control over political criticism, artistic output and freedom of expression.

Also, Nathan Medema’s a ticking does not absolve the bomb is now available online as a PDF, on its publication page. A few copies have been made available at H. de Heutz shows in Montréal and Ottawa, with forthcoming shows in Québec City and Montréal.

draft – ‘only thus’

Remember the memory of Iqrit
a land torn under administrative procedure.
Only the cradle of church bones is left to mark the absence.

And, remember Kafr Bir’im
where the purchased victimization of Yeshuv expelled a whole people
as the Holocaust became the gaping wound by which
to lay the roots of Bank Leumi, Bank Hapoalim, Bank Mizrahi-Tefahot.

Here, where the transplant seeds of Sequoia now grow,
there are infinite baobabs that choke memory and what is truth.

Remember, the bones of Lod
(the slowing of the dead)
autumn’s memory is black.

Months, like the wrath of god, burn by different names
each moving towards the innocence
of winter, where all is absolved in the holy cause, by another name.

There is a permission for pain that is granted only to the
tender hands of the one who inflicts the torture
for, don’t they also have the difficult choice
of enforcing ideology on the bruises of other bodies?

Irgun declared רק כך (only thus), or one way
to a morality that is clarified, sanitized,
buried amid the pipes that siphon water
providing humanity with unprecedented technological advances
as a means of claiming more land.

The pride of a twisted cause is taught young
where belonging is understood as borders,
citizenship can be acquired simply by holy entitlement while declined from the blood of birth
and the horror of one obliteration is made into vengeance upon another.

Where there were bodies that borrowed their existence
and learned the first meaning of the crying wall after taking a gun in hand,
this country was made by the perfecting of death
and the justification of forms of murder by the commission,
the ignorability of the law.

Remember, the land that was sold into new measurements,
dunam made into hectares
someone, somewhere, had to own it
for the thief guards most closely that which was stolen.

Here, religion forgets its obligations to penitence
over the promises of bankers whose religion is the remaking of memory.

Where people bless the miracle of bread with the justification of another murder,
the meaning of matzah is rotten, bread is dust in the mouth,
when it covers the graves of the chosen people, the people who live too much,
for whom prisons are commissioned by American and Canadian companies.

Another soul, borrowed for the right to be,
borrowed life from life as existence became a matter for speculation

a reminder, we do not forget
for whom new memory is written,
where there are fewer homes for memory,
so was the memory sold.

“We left with empty hands, a hundred and seventy years ago, and we were right. We took nothing. Because there is nothing here but States and their weapons, the rich and their lies, and the poor and their misery. There is no way to act rightly, with a clear heart, on Urras. There is nothing you can do that profit does not enter into, and fear of loss, and the wish for power. You cannot say good morning without knowing which of you is ‘superior’ to the other, or trying to prove it. You cannot act like a brother to other people, you must manipulate them, or command them, or obey them, or trick them. You cannot touch another person, yet they will not leave you alone. There is no freedom. It is a box — Urras is a box, a package, with all the beautiful wrapping of blue sky and meadows and forests and great cities. And you open the box, and what is inside it? A black cellar full of dust, and a dead man. A man whose hand was shot off because he held it out to others.”

– Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed.