I am she: I am he

listening again to pj harvey's first album, Dry(wayyy back in 1993), because of mark mazullo's fascinating article on this album, "Revisiting the Wreck: PJ Harvey's Dry and the Drowned Virgin-Whore." clearly, a sign that i am becoming an academic. as my committee chair (rachel rubinstein!) said today in regards to my presenting at the CISA symposium this saturday: "you're getting a taste of this work as a kind of professional world." kinda scary.

anyway. mazullo begins the essay with a quote from adrienne rich's famous poem, "Diving into the Wreck."

finally reading this poem in its entirety:

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

rich here reminds me somewhat of the poetry of margaret atwood. i really need to read atwood's 1971 book power politics in its entirety; a book which cuts a similar, confrontational pathway in canada as rich's 1973 book by the same name as the poem above did/does in the states. both authors explore gender and the confusing, conflicting relationships (between 'men and women,' within and without the self) such a powerful concept engenders. indeed, atwood is a fan of rich's book, and this title poem in particular:

The wreck she is diving into, in the very strong title poem, is the wreck of obsolete myths, particularly myths about men and women. She is journeying to something that is already in the past, in order to discover for herself the reality behind the myth, "the wreck and not the story of the wreck / the thing itself and not the myth." What she finds is part treasure and part corpse, and she also finds that she herself is part of it, a "half-destroyed instrument." As explorer she is detached; she carries a knife to cut her way in, cut structures apart; a camera to record; and the book of myths itself, a book which has hitherto had no place for explorers like herself.

This quest--the quest for something beyond myths, for the truths about men and women, about the "I" and the "You," the He and the She, or more generally (in the references to wars and persecutions of various kinds) about the powerless and the powerful--is presented throughout the book through a sharp, clear style and through metaphors which become their own myths. At their most successful the poems move like dreams, simultaneously revealing and alluding, disguising and concealing. The truth, it seems, is not just what you find when you open a door: it is itself a door, which the poet is always on the verge of going through.

from the The New York Times Book Review (1973), found excerpted here.

and here some lyrics from my favorite song off of Dry, "Sheela-Na-Gig." sheela-na-gig are 'figurative carvings of naked women displaying an exaggerated vulva,' mostly found in Ireland and England, btw.

I've been trying to show you over and over
Look at these my child-bearing hips
Look at these my ruby red ruby lips
Look at these my work strong arms and
You've got to see my bottle full of charm
I lay it all at your feet
You turn around and say back to me
He said
Sheela-na-gig, sheela-na-gig
You exhibitionist
Sheela-na-gig, sheela-na-gig
You exhibitionist
Gonna wash that man right out of my hair
Just like the first time he said he didn't care
Gonna wash that man right out of my hair
Heard it before, no more