Reuters reporters bought chemicals to make US$3M worth of fentanyl tablets for US$3600.
Chinese chemical sellers will air-ship fentanyl ingredients door-to-door to North America. Reuters purchased enough to make 3 million pills. Such deals are astonishingly easy – and reveal how drug traffickers are eluding efforts to halt the deadly trade behind the fentanyl crisis... Anyone with a mailbox, an internet connection and digital currency to pay the tab can source these chemicals...
Interesting interview with Maggie McCart, who suffers from Prosopometamorphopsia, aka Demon Face Syndrome.
I always find this kind of thing interesting as I have a bit of prosopagnosia myself — that's a general face blindness. You could ask me to describe people I've known for decades and I'd have trouble with the face and facial area. If I recognize you on the street — which I won't — it's actually due more to your gait and silhouette than your face. Bless you if you've got every day carry accessories: a cane, a satchel, a dog.
Anecdote Alert
I became aware of my issue when I was about ten. My mother didn't come home when expected. A couple hours later, I called the cops and when they came over, they asked me if I'd seen her that morning. I had. They asked me what she was wearing and I couldn't say. They asked me to describe her and all I could do was illustrate her height. I went and got a photo of her from the mantel and showed it to them. "Does she still look like this?"
"What do you mean? That's her. That's a picture of her."
"It looks like it was taken in the sixties."
I was very baffled as to why that mattered. "Is her hair still this color?" They turned the photo to show me.
"I'm not sure."
"What do you mean? You said you saw her this morning!"
I shrugged. I could not tell them if she had curly hair or straight hair, red hair or blonde hair, if she wore glasses, earrings, or a necklace, if she had any missing teeth, or what color her eyes were. That was 45 years ago and I still cannot tell you the answers to any of those questions. I'd have difficulty answering those questions about anybody, even people I've known decades.
Just then, my mother walked in the door. Before leaving, the cops chided her for raising a kid who played practical jokes on the police.
A few years ago a woman I fancied and knew quite well asked if she'd ever introduced me to her cousin. I said I wasn't sure. She pulled out her phone to show me a picture. As I watched, she flipped through her photos looking for one as I watched. She briefly paused to consider one. I took a good look at it and said, "I've never seen that person before in my life." She looked to see if I was joking. "Seriously. Never," I said.
"Lincoln, that's me two years ago."
Luke Winkie
It happened. That strange sort of serendipitous coincidence thing.
I contacted Elisa Gabbert for the first time to ask about the release date of the audio version for her new book. (Her previous collection, The Unreality of Memory, is genius.) I had considered doing this many times over the last few months but ended up doing it today. We emailed a bit, and then I looked at her website again, following links that led me to a NYTimes piece where she does a close read of Auden. In it, she writes of Brueghel's painting, The Fall of Icarus, which is mentioned in the poet's Musée des Beaux Arts.
Hours later, I'm on a walk, listening to an audiobook of Maggie O'Farrell's I Am, I Am, I Am and she writes about the same painting. I don't even care what the odds are. What I want to know is What is this?! What happened here? — And yes, I'm aware of pattern recognition and confirmation bias, but this seems beyond. Does it not? (Obviously, I need Gabbert to write about it so I can understand it.)
I am listening to the O'Farrell book, which is subtitled Seventeen Brushes With Death, because for years now I've considered a project called My Death Inches. I'll write about all the injuries I've suffered and how each inches me closer to death.
I had the idea while in Spain. I was wearing shorts and a straw hat. I sat down, crossed my left ankle over my right leg, and popped my hat onto my raised knee. The heat from my head had warmed the hat, which then warmed my knee. I wondered if that escaping heat — that transfer of energy — took some of my remaining life with it. I wrote a poem about it, and the poem made me think I should document my kidney stones and many fractures, my food poisonings and bike accidents and shower slips, the animal attacks, the overwhelming wildfires and crushing, lung-filling salt water, the broken glass, broken bones, and broken spirit.
There was the time I wouldn't stop crying as a toddler and the babysitter fed me rum to shut me up. I had to be rushed to emergency to have my two-year-old stomach pumped. Was my life shortened by this ordeal? Or the time M—— and I decided to try unfamiliar fruits each Thursday. That week was Mangosteen. I didn't know it wasn't ripe and I didn't know that unless ripe, it's all but impossible to open. The knife slipped, the serrated knife slipped, and cut the first knuckle of my left index finger to the bone. ("Bone white is very white," as Keanu Reeves says.) I should have gone to the emergency room, but: I didn't want the date to end. It wasn't even a real date. I don't think she was interested in me in that way. But I didn't want the night to end. Didn't want to say goodbye. So I held that finger under unbearably cold water as long as I could and M—— wrapped it in gauze as I grimaced and groaned. Then, we drank cheap plonk and talked for hours while the sun came up and the bandage filled with blood.
Obviously, I'm still alive. I didn't bleed out. I'm alright. You can't bleed out from a finger, no matter how deep the cut, can you? And it's pathetic, right? The whole thing — not paying attention while slicing is pathetic; neglecting the wound is pathetic; being so lonely you'd risk losing part of a digit or fainting from blood loss is pathetic.
Did that knife move me a little closer to death? Who can say? I do have a permanent lump on that knuckle. Twenty-five years later — tonight — I'm stroking it with my thumb. It has a tiny significance. What is that significance? Of what is it made? Is it misaligned bone? Severed nerve endings aching to reconnect? Or did my skin heal over and trap forever a manifestation of a memory of when I was so needing someone to love me that pain meant nothing — and, for the rest of my days, I could touch it and be back with M—— in that kitchen, both of us wanting to taste new fruit, but neither of us aware that it just wasn't time.
Was a pleasure to meet and speak briefly with Marilyn Armand at the Toronto Outdoor Art Fair.
Armand hand-makes upcycled, modern quilts of extraordinary quality that will last generations.
You can check out all Armand's creations at Le Point Visible. In addition to the quilts, she makes pillows, jackets, and more.
Canadian photographer Maureen O'Connor's work is always one of the highlights for me of the Toronto Outdoor Art Fair. If I don't find her booth on my own meanderings, I make a point of seeking it out. I can't leave until I've seen her new photos.
All of the animals in her pictures are live — there's no taxidermy and no posing. The creatures, which to my understanding live in rehabilitation sanctuaries, are brought to the abandoned buildings and allowed to explore.
You can see all O'Connor's work at maureenfaithoconnor.com. The above are all from the Threshold series, but the Inclusion, Departures, and Cuban series are also excellent.
"National Parks are some of the most beautiful places on Earth. They offer a chance to escape the hustle and bustle of everyday life and to connect with nature. And they're right at our doorstep, waiting to be explored. Whether you're looking for a place to go for a hike, a picnic, or just a walk in the woods, there's sure to be a park nearby that has what you're looking for."
Obviously, they've got info on parks world-wide. But here's their page on Canada.
lyrikline is an international website for poetry. They've got an excellent search engine for their growing list of poets in english and in translation (more than 1600 poets so far).
Head on over and listen to some Ron Padgett, or John Giorno, then let yourself discover poets from Iran, Vietnam, or Cyprus.
Lots to explore here.
Here's the site's official description:
"lyrikline is an international website for experiencing the diversity of contemporary poetry. Here you can listen to the melodies, sounds, and rhythms of international poetry, recited by the authors themselves, and read the poems both in their original languages and various translations."
Perhaps you've read Ron Padgett's Love Poem. If not, it's below. Or you can listen to him reading it.
We have plenty of matches in our house.
We keep them on hand always.
Currently our favorite brand is Ohio Blue Tip,
though we used to prefer Diamond brand.
That was before we discovered Ohio Blue Tip matches.
They are excellently packaged, sturdy
little boxes with dark and light blue and white labels
with words lettered in the shape of a megaphone,
as if to say even louder to the world,
“Here is the most beautiful match in the world,
its one-and-a-half-inch soft pine stem capped
by a grainy dark purple head, so sober and furious
and stubbornly ready to burst into flame,
lighting, perhaps, the cigarette of the woman you love,
for the first time, and it was never really the same
after that. All this will we give you.”
That is what you gave me, I
become the cigarette and you the match, or I
the match and you the cigarette, blazing
with kisses that smoulder toward heaven.
It's available in the Collected Poems of Ron Padgett, which unfortunately is out of print, and many people I'm sure are familiar with an early draft of it from the film Paterson:
But did you know that in the 60s, Saul Bass designed the packaging for the Ohio Match Co.?
Photos by the always wonderful Present & Correct.
"POP&ROLL is an innovative art project that blurs the lines between functionality, design, and artistic expression. Founded by the visionary artist kissmiklos, our project encompasses three distinct but interconnected spaces: the Art Gallery, the Art Shop, and the pioneering Art Toilet."
From the mind of Kissmiklos.
An oldie but a goodie. Gotta be my favorite talk show performance. I watch it a couple times a year. Sam Herring's sincerity and vulnerability; the unexpected change in his voice's tone; Letterman's joyous expression of delight. So great.
