►►►Phạm Đình Trọng - Xin giữ vững lòng trung, (TD, 28/11/2023). Hai điều cần nhắc lại: 1/ "Tất cả những tổ chức quốc doanh, từ kinh tế đến tôn giáo đều chỉ là công cụ cai trị của đảng cộng sản cầm quyền, chỉ vì mục đích chính trị của đảng cộng sản, không vì mục đích và tôn chỉ mà tổ chức đó mang tên; 2/ "Tự do là giá trị của cuộc sống. Không bạo lực nào khuất phục được tự do. Trong tấm lòng trung trinh với nghĩa lớn có tình cảm tận hiếu riêng tư. Xin tiến sĩ nhà báo Phạm Chí Dũng an lòng giữ vững lòng trung với sự nghiệp đấu tranh cho xã hội dân chủ và quyền tự do của con người."
►Công lý và pháp quyền,(*) (FB Huy Đức, 28/11/2023). "lý do CNXH không thành công trong “phe XHCN” là bởi công lý đã không được coi là nguyên tắc quan trọng nhất; mục đích đã bị lấy để biện minh cho phương tiện.
Không có nhà nước pháp quyền thì không bảo vệ được công lý, không hình thành được xã hội dân sự, không xây dựng được kinh tế thị trường, và cũng sẽ không bao giờ có CNXH [theo nghĩa công bằng, dân chủ…]."
►►►Pierre Darriulat - Đại học tự chủ (Tia Sáng, 23/11/2023). Nguyễn Hoàng Thạch dịch. “Chỉ có tổ chức tự chủ trên nền của dân chủ mới có thể đào tạo ra những người trí thức tự chủ, nhận thức và tự nhận lãnh trách nhiệm của mình một cách tự giác, trí tuệ, sáng tạo và bản lĩnh trước xã hội, đất nước. Đó chính là chức năng của trường đại học.
►►►Hai phần bài của Phạm Quý Thọ trên RFA được gom thành một trên Boxit VN. Đại án Vạn Thịnh Phát: Tham nhũng nghiêm trọng mang tính hệ thống và vấn đề cải cách tăng trưởng, (Boxit VN, 28/11/2023) Phạm Quý Thọ - PGS. TS. nguyên Trưởng Khoa Chính sách Công, Học Viện Chính sách & Phát triển, Bộ Kế hoạch-Đầu tư, Việt Nam
►Việt Nam khẳng định chủ trương ‘tăng trưởng xanh’ khi Thủ tướng Chính đi dự COP28, (VOA, 28/11/2023);
►GS. Đặng Hùng Võ: Nên đẩy mạnh thị trường carbon nội địa, (Người Đô Thị, 25/11/2023)
►Long bào được cho của Vua Bảo Đại sẽ lên sàn đấu giá, (RFA, 28/11/2023)
►Nguyen Khac Giang - Tại sao Việt Nam phải đối mặt với cuộc chiến khó khăn chống rác thải nhựa. Why Vietnam faces an uphill battle in its war against plastic waste, (SCMP, 26/11/2023)
►LS Đặng Đình Mạnh: Ăn hối lộ ‘không vụ lợi’ là ngụy biện của tư pháp Việt Nam, (NV, 27/11/2023)
►Đại tướng Phan Văn Giang: Phải có chính sách lương, thưởng, nhà ở thu hút chuyên gia quân sự, (TT, 28/11/2023). Dân đóng quá nhiều rồi, đại tướng gặp Tô Lâm xin phần cho chuyên gia.
►Quốc hội Việt Nam thông qua việc sáp nhập ba lực lượng bảo vệ an ninh cơ sở, (RFA, 28/11/2023). "Theo dự kiến tổng kinh phí cần chi để bảo đảm hoạt động cho lực lượng này được tính toán là hơn 3.500 tỷ đồng mỗi năm; trung bình mỗi tỉnh/thành phố cần khoảng gần 56 tỷ đồng/năm."
►Nhật Bản và Việt Nam nhất trí tăng cường hợp tác an ninh. Japan and Vietnam agree to deepen security cooperation, (JT, 27/11/2023)
►Một học sinh trung học Waterloo trẻ nhất đoạt giải Thơ CBC. Waterloo high school student youngest winner of CBC Poetry Prize, (Record, 26/11/2023).
►Các bài thơ đoạt giải thưởng CBC
+ lotus flower blooming into breasts by Kyo Lee(CBC, 7/11/2023).
i watch with hollow eyes. Relinquish everything
i once knew to let the languid motions of the film enter me
roughly. The woman kissing
something probably. Her: a beautifully vacant orifice
but for now, overflowing with something like hunger
that i swallow greedily. Her: red drool cutting through my lips.
My father changes the channel to a documentary
about the War to teach me how to properly love in korean:
roped naked women bruised beautiful on military trucks.
Love: soldiers slicing open white dresses
in search of a blood mine to satiate their thirst.
Love: a revenge for existence.
The little boy is a wannabe soldier
determined to conquer this body
that i wear & call his. Inside me his fingers become spears
puncturing dead meat & i hope to flood
the battlegrounds with rivers of leaking red. Flickers
of his cigarette land suicide missions on my skin—we are trembling.
i watch with hollow eyes. Relinquish myself
into another present: a pond overflowing with hunger.
White lotus flowers blooming into soft breasts & i
pluck its petals, lovingly.
He loves me not, she loves me not
he loves me not, she
plants misty kisses on my collarbones. i
dig them up softly
before they are tainted of me: your tenderness
has no place on this body
littered with cigarette burns blooming
into bullet wounds, a night sky across the ribcage. Dear Father
i wish i could teach you love.
Change the channel to her lips again: a hole swallowing its orifice
& breathe light into the dusk of your eyes.
Father, this is my first lesson: there are flowers that bloom in water
& boys with quivering hands
& women who love women
& daughters
who learn how to
love.
+restitution OR Nanabush speaks to the settlers by Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm
(CBC, 7/11/2023).
i)
i have come to repossess your house
please vacate by noon
on the 1st day after the next full moon
you may take any personal items you can carry
the damage you have done to the land
will be assessed
and a bill will be sent by the restorative revenue agency
on the night of the new sugar moon
it must be paid in full
to avoid further charges
ii)
because you are indigent
i have arranged accommodations for you
at the swamp a two day canoe trip downriver
there you will find trees and hatchets
so you can build the traditional log homes of your forebears
to live out your remaining days in peace
please remember
you may not leave the marsh
without a pass
you will find the applications at our governance circle
mondays – thursdays from sunrise until the sun sits at the top of the sky
and every other friday from dusk until our children finish counting stars and fall asleep
iii)
to apply for a temporary travel permit in order to obtain a pass
please see your local indigent agent
and provide them with 4 ojibwe spirit horses
a repatriated drum
a bucket of odemin offered
after some have been given back to the earth
an unlimited cell phone plan
four smoked trout
a tin of stewed tomatoes
and one package of macaroni
if you do not have macaroni
kraft dinner will suffice
(original only)
upon obtaining the forms
note that they must be filled out in our languages
forms covered in foreign markings will be returned
a processing fee
postage and handling
will be applied to your account
failure to complete the forms fully
will result in delays
or a denial of your request
and additional penalties
will be accrued
should you require translation services
they will be provided upon request
the cost
including administration fees
will be added to your bill
and your illiteracy will be noted
iv)
i have come for your children
your account is in arrears
and you are illiterate
it has become clear
that you lack the mental acuity
to succeed
and are unfit to parent
it has been reported
that you live
without a shelter
and your possessions strewn about you
in the middle of a swamp
this despite the abundance of building materials
around you
please be aware
we will be adopting your children as our own
they will be taught to understand the meaning of kinship
to hunt and gather
make offerings
share the harvest
take only what they need
leg wrestle
tell stories
smoke tan hides
dance and sing
navigate the waters
read the stars
write poetry
make tea
sleep when they are tired
chew roots
giggle and tease
build lean-tos wigwams debris huts and tiipiis
and speak Anishinaabemowin
you will be permitted
regular supervised visits
and will regain custody
upon successful completion
of an anti-racist
decolonial
anti-corporate
land based
parenting and survivance program
in our language
the cost will be added to your account
v)
i have come to share your wealth
please note that capitalism
has become obsolete
paper money has zero value
banks are empty
their vaults were opened
and they held nothing but desire
those desires have been set free
do not be afraid
everything you need surrounds you
there are no more kings or queens
of nations
commerce
or country music
addendum a)
i am a "trickster"
this is not a drill
+Sweetness | מתיקות by Anna Swanson (CBC, 9/11/2023)
First night of Rosh Hashanah,
always a new moon. Alone in a rented cabin
I wrap an old towel around me,
turn off lights, carry a plastic dish of honey
and apple slices to the hot tub. No large light
to dull the dark open doors of the sky.
I lie back naked in warm water
under the quiet libido of stars, and the world and I
have some words about sweetness
for the coming year. Jupiter rises closer
than I've ever seen—twinkling,
I can't think of another word, little rays
like a star in a storybook. There will be sex, yes,
I say, dipping a finger into 55,000 miles
of pollen gathering, sex dripping, no, sweeter,
sweet as the edge of the paring knife
that cleaves open the apple so the wet cells of it
might dip, unskinned, into honey, so that we might meet it
with tongues first, before teeth. Maybe
this year someone will pat my head,
tell me how good I've been in the filthy privacy
of our own sweet world. Friends will fall easily
into my life, like in our twenties when we met
and sparked with such ease it was unremarkable,
except let me delight in new friendships at forty-eight,
no less like lightning but encumbered with toddlers,
logistics, work schedules, lining up our brief
windows and understanding, finally, how sweet,
how remarkable, to make a new friend.
Sweetness of being together in the hundreds,
the thousands, for a new world whose seed
is us singing it in the streets, solidarity as a spell
we say out loud with our bodies—Protect Trans Kids!
Water is life! Not gay as in happy but queer
as in Free Palestine! Maybe I will watch children I love
learn to ride bicycles and program small plastic robots.
Keira will read me her new favourite book
while her parents cook dinner in the next room.
Gluten-free mushroom cashew pie, confit tomatoes.
Another fifteen-pound brisket slow-cooked
six hours with the twelve cups of onions
in my mother's recipe, a backyard of people to eat it
and almost enough forks. Picnics, the sweetness
of plaid blankets spread with snacks,
drinking hot tea in the snow, feeding each other
with our gardens and our fingers, which,
of course, is another way of saying, yes
there will be sex: the kind that is fingers, fingers,
fingers. And love, new spark and flush
blooming out from under where I had not thought
to look. A cool pond at sunrise, that perfect
shade of lipstick that makes my lips look
like my lips only now my lips are ripe fruit
and a sparkling stranger walks, unhurried,
into the queer orchard of my life.
Sweetness of secret beaches and outdoor naps
and emails that say pleased to inform
to everything we have so ardently asked.
Of leaning into a quiet Saturday,
a heavy cotton quilt, of giving a body
what it needs and for as long as it wants.
Sweetness of deep sleep, of loving a body
when it is accomplishing nothing.
Of this recliner with a view of the ocean,
tea and two squares of chocolate
next to that new novel by that favourite author
and hoping, deliciously, it's a good one.
Of this new year, the doors just cracking, and here
we are, about to step in, and we hope—deliciously—
it's a good one, a sweet one, a drenched,
a dancing, a diving one, where we dip a finger
into the secret centre of our possible lives,
taste our way into the opening year,
tongues first, then teeth.
+Variations on Genesis by Jillian Clasky, (CBC, 9/11/2023)
I. Variations
In the beginning, light said let there be God, and there was God. He rose
from the dirt, clawing toward the brightness until it settled in his gut
and seeped into his bones. Man created God in his own image, so God
said let there be darkness, and darkness said let there be light, and light said
let there be God.
Or: in the beginning, a woman stood alone in the shade
of a cedar. She placed her palm on her swollen belly and felt inside it
a world bursting with a thousand histories. She carved them into the soil,
prayed the flood would be gentle.
Or: in the beginning, I tore out my rib
and built myself a new body. The bone grew another bone and another
until all the fresh bones fused together as if forming the branches
of a tree. Then the tree curled into a skeleton, but it did not grow flesh on
its own—I had to cover it first with clay of the earth and etch my name
into its neck. Finally it breathed, and we were alive.
Or: in the beginning,
I swallowed a bird. A sparrow, I think, but I couldn't be sure. Its feathers
cut into the insides of my cheeks and the back of my throat. It tasted
dry, like chalk on my tongue, like a single grey hair baked into a loaf
of bread. But the bird took root in the pit of my stomach, bones and guts
and all, and I had wings.
Or: in the beginning, I knew how to sing.
II. New Bones
When we sit shiva we cover
all our mirrors. There are mystical
interpretations of this ritual
(we are blocking out evil spirits
that might visit us and latch onto
our reflections, our mindless,
lesser doubles, when we are at
our weakest), and practical ones
(we are not to adorn ourselves
during shiva, as a time of mourning
is not a time for vanity). Practices
like these apply only to Jews more
conscientious than me. I've never
grieved for a bird, but I imagine
the ritual would take a similar
form: swathes of fabric that sluice
down to shield the light of glass
from restless bones. By twelve
I knew the world was made of
so much water: I would never
hold it in my hands; it would only
slip through. Instead I thought
I could taste it, could cloud my eyes
and breathe in the sweetness until
it settled in my chest, deep enough
under the skin to keep quiet.
III. Kiddush
I tried to catch the truth in a net and trawl it to shore. I tried to
smash a bottle with my lips and suck in the poison. My first time
drunk enough to turn out my insides, I bent over a porcelain bowl
and shut my eyes, convinced I would die this way. I am an almost
woman trapped in the body of a ghost, built of threads and wisp-thin
filaments; I am an almost monster trapped in the body of a woman,
my monstrosity made clearest every time I stand over a cliffside
and end up driving home; I am an almost human trapped in the body
of a monster, pinching the skin of my throat to blanch out the blood.
+I Can Communicate If Communication Is Another Form of Sinking by Jaclyn Desforges, (CBC, 9/11/2023)
In spring men come with flamethrowers to do a controlled burn. This is good
& natural. The snail shells get scorched and sprouts pop up —
little green soldiers! The whole thing smells like a wet barbeque.
At the trailhead I take a video and tell you to turn
the sound up. Last week the birds wanted to fuck each other
but today they're screaming it happened
as if telling the story enough times will make it not
have happened. A seed is a small thing, you only need fire
& lately I've been thinking: if I plant a selfie of you and a selfie of me
in the same plot, will we become one person?
If we become one person, will you carry this parcel? I don't want to carry it;
I've been carrying it all day. There are droplets of sweat on my upper lip
& I keep hoping you'll lick them off. I think eroticism is hair,
parting, & sometimes when I think mouth I say mother
& sometimes when I say mother, I peer into my own mouth.
Pregnancy draws calcium from the femur
& when I fell down the stairs while holding my baby
I contorted my body to protect hers. My left ass cheek bloomed
like wildflowers & my elbow hurt for a year. But the mistake
happened long before the fall, long before the bruise,
long before that fly landed on my tongue and I couldn't admit it,
so I went without water. All night I dream about a man with a crossbow
at the bottom of the ocean. I guzzle vodka from an unlabeled bottle.
You'll be even drunker, he explains, on your way back up.
I never know how my dreams end – when I reach the surface,
I'm already awake. I check myself into rehab, a spring-scented place –
there are feathers in the pillows & all I need to do is eat.
All I need to do is chew until everything I remember is chewed up.
I'll feed it to the birds, who are screaming about fire.
When you get to the bottom, it's all about praying
so I slap my palms together like dead fish. I press my eyes
against the viewfinder, I press my forehead against
your forehead. What I'm trying to tell you is when I'm wrapped
up in you, I don't feel like myself. What I'm trying to tell you
is when I'm wrapped up in you, I feel like all my selves.
And I don't want to leave yet. I want to be ghosts with you.
I hope the birds shut up about it. I hope there will be new snails.
Even now, can you see them? Eggs clinging to the leaves –
the sun is out, it's not too hot. It's raining just a bit.
