And here I turned into, customizing her, too. Initially, I’d examine her, as I stated, as one way or the other Southern, imparting my emerging non secular unease with a delicate however protective grid of phrases and imagery. My Dickinson, like me, wrote from a desperate compulsion. My Dickinson feared intercourse, be it spiritual, social, or bodily. My Dickinson turned into misunderstood, a little boastful, and certain for a tough-to-outline glory. My Dickinson had splendid death tension however nevertheless longed for its arrival.
In college, a smiling professor wrote on my papers that I had absolutely ignored all of Dickinson’s felicity, rightly accusing me of projecting a private distress onto her, and perhaps onto the whole international. The professor had a factor; moments of intense pleasure abound in her paintings, proper beside moments of abysmal bleakness. I don’t need to simplify her complicated oeuvre into piles categorised HAPPY and SAD, but concerning mood, Dickinson turned into a -trick pony, with out tons potential for the spectrum between. I assume via now you know where that is headed: I became showing a tendency to act hyperbolically, spiraling from strings of cocky, inspired, and cash-blowing “fine” days to spurts of homebodyish, withdrawn, and fatigued “worst” days. It seems that my mental inheritance from a bloodline of spiritual mania, dementia, obsessive-compulsive disease, schizophrenia, and suicide become shaping up to be a touch of the antique manic melancholy. Yes, now my Dickinson became bipolar, too.
In this situation, I added her with me to graduate college in Florida, the identical Florida whose “venereal soil” Wallace Stevens felt certain to curse goodbye; the identical Florida about which Flannery O’Connor wrote “[It ] is not a noble kingdom…however it’s miles an vital one.” This mutant peninsula has not one of the—albeit frequently stultifying—landed-gentry coherence of other Southern states. The backside tip of Florida is its personal extraordinary, city-tropic international; the middle is an oversized, fluorescent appeal-land; the northern middle seems like a Georgia runoff; grey Tallahassee is a widespread-issue capital town; the Panhandle is, well, a greater tan-aware Alabama. Florida’s a holiday region to which kids flock to have their desires fulfilled by using company funworlds, to which young adults flock to mimic TV spring smash rituals, to which the “lively” flock to “stumble upon” nature, to which the aged flock to die hedonism-lite deaths, and to which celebrities and the rich come to roost atop their lot. Somehow, that the doomed own family in O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” is certain for Florida appears to implicate them further. This is Disney-Dixie.