Anne Carson

Yesterday I won the Nobel Prize.Odd day.

Ihave​ a Rosalía hangover. We climbed a giant day to reach her, all twenty thousand Chicago fans. Strutting and grinning and asterisking her eyes she held their shrieking out around her like a magic cloak and changed them all to rabbits or a vase of tulips inside its folds. The white crinolines. The shrieking. So much to understand. At her every inhalation of breath the entire...

so how’s it going with the Parkinson’s? you say and I startto say every moment bleeding to death around me but the

therapist cautioned me yesterday don’t say dread call itdiscomfort you’re not in danger you’re uncomfortable so

I say the person is in a state of intense receiving of self theperson feels real to themself and you say aren’t there pills

for dread...

1

breakfast is ready Dadhappy birthday to you it’s not my birthdayyou better get a move on sit down Dadwho’s been using my razor you don’t have a razorwhy don’t you just bugger off sit down eat your eggsthat’s a hot mess I know you don’t like the yolks so eat the white okay eat the toasttoo late too late Dad don’t cryyou been using my razor okay yes I...

This​ is an essay about hands and handwriting. I think of handwriting as a way to organise thought into shapes. I like shapes. I like organising them. But because of recent neurological changes in my brain I find shapes fall apart on me. My responsibility to forms can’t be gracefully fulfilled. Nonetheless, I offer the following in the hope it does not strike you as dishevelled or...