Good Song: Ici-bas

New Year's is upon us again, and as usual I'm in a reflective mood. This time I've got the Cowboys Fringants' Ici-bas running through my head. Les Cowboys have an unusual gift for couching poetry in vernacular speech, and it only gains in power what it loses in polish. Since the group lost its lead singer to prostate cancer just last month, this song has been much in my thoughts.

The video itself is a significant, Cowboys-worthy bonus; like another, unwritten verse, pumping context into words that might otherwise read more grimly than intended. Note all the visual metaphors for growing up and growing old, and also the classic backstreet scenes from some Québécois town. (All Québécois towns have an uncanny knack for being distinct and the same at the same time, and this one – whoever it is – makes me homesick for my own.)

And finally, of course, that heart-pulling winter: much more than a simple season, it's a kind of family member in Québec – a relationship hard to grasp beyond the Ottawa. None of which is hurt by an additional call-out to my enduring love of taking long walks through it, both in town and nearer home.

« Ici-bas » literally means the here-below, an expression that exists in English but is much more current in French. It implies the fishbowl nature of the human lot -- its claustrophobic smallness, the impossibility of escaping it with our lives. And also the unity of our experience, whether we choose to accept it or not.

All of which made translating even the title tough. At last I went with Down Here, with its implied awareness of the great not-Earth, and the modesty of our little neighbourhood and our existence in it.

Follows the usual heartbreak of reclothing sublime images in clunky foreign syntax. Does « trafic » refer to backroom intrigue, or is it just traffic? Because it's both in French, and the writer almost certainly meant both. And what of « faucher » (to scythe), mostly used in these industrial times to describe what Death does. Strike down, we might say, but that would leave a richer metaphor by the roadside. Nothing English gets us there as completely and concisely; you just have to take your best shot and move on.

Any road, I suggest you first listen to the song while reading the lyrics and ignoring the video, to savour the full impact of the message. Then run through the video again, watching it this time.

Either way, it's a touching meditation on The Great Matter.

Best of luck in the coming year, and may we remember and honour each other, here-below.

(Note: an English translation follows the French lyrics.)


Ici-bas
paroles et musique: Jean-François Pauzé

Malgré nos vies qui s’emballent dans une époque folle
Où un rien nous détourne du simple instant présent
Alors que tout s’envole
Avec le temps
Malgré la mort, celle qui frappe et qui nous fait pleurer
Ou bien celle qui un jour, tôt ou tard, nous fauchera
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas

Malgré l’amour celui qui nous fait vivre d’espoir
Qui parfois fait si mal quand on reste sur le seuil
D’une trop courte histoire
Sans qu’on le veuille
Malgré la haine qui souvent nous retombe sur le nez
Et les caves qui s’abreuvent de ce triste crachat
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas
Ici-bas

Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront
Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon
La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres
La lueur dans les jours plus sombres
Tant que mes pieds marcheront
J’avancerai comme un con
Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas
Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle
Ici-bas

Malgré les merdes, les revers, les choses qui nous échappent
Les p’tits, les grands tourments, les erreurs de parcours
Et tout c’qui nous rattrape
Dans le détour
Malgré l’ennui, le trafic, les rêves inachevés
La routine, le cynisme, l’hiver qui finit pas
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas
Ici-bas

Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront
Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon
La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres
La lueur dans les jours plus sombres
Tant que mes pieds marcheront
J’avancerai comme un con
Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas
Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle
Ici-bas


Down Here
words and music by Jean-François Pauzé

In spite of the way our lives spin out of control in this daft epoch
Where an anything can pull us out of the moment we're in
While it all flies away
Over time
In spite of the deaths that strike and leave us crying
Or the one that one day, sooner or later, will cut us down
I will plant my feet
Down here

In spite of the love that allows us to live in hope
But sometimes hurts so bad we remain stuck on the edge
Of a story cut too short
Like it or not
In spite of the hate so often blown back in our face
And the caverns storing up all that wretched spit
I will plant my feet
Down here
Down here

So long as my eyes still open
I will search the horizon
For the chink that will shine on my ruins
A light in my darkest days
So long as my feet will still walk
I'll forge ahead like an idiot
Hope in every step
Right to my last breath
Down here

In spite of the hassles, the setbacks, the ones that got away
The small wounds and the great, the wrong turns
And all that trips us up
In the detour
In spite of the boredom, the traffic, the unfulfilled dreams
The routine, the cynicism, the endless winters
I will plant my feet
Down here
Down here

So long as my eyes still open
I will search the horizon
For the chink that will shine on my ruins
A light in my darkest days
So long as my feet will still walk
I'll forge ahead like an idiot
Hope in every step
Right to my last breath
Down here

Street Level Zen: Contingent Reality

« L'être humain va toujours chercher l'horizon. C'est d'ailleurs à cause de sa conscience et son intelligence que l'horizon existe. »

Serge Bouchard

(English translation here.)


(Photo courtesy of Artur Opala and Wikimedia Commons.)

How Sudden Are You?

So another visit to the annals of early Buddhism has yielded a further bit of provocative trivia: subitism is very old. Possibly as old as the religion itself.

This contentious point of Buddhist teaching, whose name draws on the French « subite » – "sudden" – asserts that enlightenment is a discrete event that occurs all at once in a blinding flash that explodes in your brain, changing both it and you forever. (The Christian adjective for this notion is "catastrophic", as in catastrophic conversion, the Evangelical ideal.)

The opposite view is gradualism, in which enlightenment slowly accrues over time through diligent practice, and only in turning back does one realise it has, at some point, been attained. (And Western Buddhism often implies that it may remain occult even to death.)

This is the main doctrinal difference between Rinzai and Soto, the two extant schools of Japanese Zen. (Seon, Korea's Chàn-descended tradition, also embraces sudden insight, but interestingly, has divided into parties over whether further practice afterward is required to "ripen" it, versus insistence that the bang itself is comprehensive; you're done.)

Rinzai students meditate to precipitate the long-awaited thunderbolt that strikes off the shackles of delusion – weakened beforehand by the crowbar of koanic logic – leaving a mind gleaming in perfect clarity.

Soto types sit for insight – a post-cognitive grasp of the koanic nature of existence, which, over a period of years or lives, eventually calibrates our minds to the universal frequency – though we may not apprehend for some time that our minds have inexplicably taken to gleaming in perfect clarity.

I'd always assumed subitism developed within Zen itself, and was surprised to learn that it actually came from the Southern School of Chàn, having been planted there by none other than 8th century founder and Huineng successor, Shenhui. Further study reveals that the two perspectives were already current in Bodhidharma's India, and may have touched off the first great theoretical debate in Buddhism

The topic isn't pedantic; it strikes at the very nature of enlightenment, and therefore Buddhism. Are we a religion, as subitism suggests, leading faithful practitioners to concrete, certifiable metaphysical transformation; or a philosophy, as gradualism would have it, shifting the adherent's perception by subtle and cumulative means?

History tends rather to support the first, though test cases are often ambiguous. Exhibit A would be the Buddha himself, said to attain enlightenment at an exact moment – upon seeing the morning star after eight days of intensive practice. The softness in that argument comes from his description of the phenomenon, devoid of fireworks, euphoria, or choirs of angels. He just… woke up. (The title we know him by translates as "The One Who Awakened".)

The legend of Bodhidharma also implies a sudden change – we're told he sat before a wall for nine years and "became enlightened", though we have even fewer particulars about the mechanism of that. To the best of my knowledge he never described it, or specified a time, date, or even season. Did he "become enlightened" in a flash, or did he just notice that it had happened, and get up?

And somewhat strangely, Dogen – founder of Soto – by his own detailed admission also received catastrophic illumination. According to the man himself, he was meditating up a storm when the jikijitsu suddenly whacked his dozing seatmate with the kyôsaku. At the crack of the cane, Dogen awakened as well.

Yet this is also the guy who told us enlightenment is gradual.

So clearly the distinction isn't simple. There are many Soto stories of enlightenment events like Dogen's – moments where the dam broke to the fall of a final raindrop, and nothing was the same again. What's common to both teachings is that getting to that point, whether it arrives with chirping birds or marching bands, is intricate, esoteric practice, demanding much zazen and maintenance of one's perceptual instrument.

And that makes the query a bit beside the point, though it does remain intellectually stimulating.

Rather a koan in its own right, really.


(Photo courtesy of Felix Mittermeier and Wikimedia Commons.)/span>

Street Level Zen: Equanimity

« Tout le malheur des hommes vient de ne savoir pas demeurer en repos, dans une chambre. »

Blaise Pascal

(English translation here.)

Rock Groups 2022

July has ambushed us again, and you know what that means: another whack of rock groups.

As I've explained in the past, July is that month when readership plummets, Zen monasteries close for the summer, and I run about the house naked… figuratively, at least. Which is to say, I vary from the more serious business of this blog and indulge a silly whim or two.

Of which this one has become an annual tradition.

So if you're new to this ritual, click on the embedded link above for the particulars. For the rest of you, gird your loins for:


Rock Groups 2022

Debris

Manley Toggle and the Light Crew

Dipswitch

Quadruped

Reg-O-Matic (rapper named Reginald)

Mångata (ethereal electronica)

Petrovascular

Tom Collins and the Highballs

Shotgun Wedding

Peristaltik

Dead Right

Looseleaf

Solid State

The Plethora

Airship

Dish Rack

Moosemeat

Tazelwurm

FlashBang

Crossbow

Sparehead #1 (don't pronounce the #)

Turdücken

Bandsaw

Hi-Horse

The Whistleblowers (Irish folk-rock)

The Wheelers

Tomnahurich (Scottish folk-rock)

The No Code (accent on No)

Les Castors du Rhône

Bright Blue

Rockbound

Skred

Monkeynut

Tony Zamboni and the Ice Machine

Blatweasel

The Rescue Dogs

Homogenous Mass (rap group)

Stretch

Avvakum

Aqua Regia

Tan Ru and the Nomads

Onyx

Dirty Thieving Bastards

Sinlahekin

Cutter John and the Penguins

(Photo courtesy of Markus Spiske and Rawpixel.com.)

Street Level Zen: Enlightenment

« Il n'y a rien de plus heureux qu'un être humain qui est devenu ce qu'il était déjà. »

Le si regretté Serge Bouchard.

(English translation here.)

(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commmons and a generous photographer.)

New Year's Song: On va s'aimer encore

Here's another great example of a video that adds striking dimension to the song it accompanies. Not that it isn't fine as it is; Vincent Vallières is among the most respected songwriters in Canada. But the juxtaposition of these images deepens the lyrics exponentially, turning Vallières' love song into a reflection on the temporal ground of being, and borrowing a few Zen references along the way. (Check out the Buddhist wheel of life at 2:32.)

It's no exaggeration to say that non-francophones could skip the translation (see below) entirely and just watch the video. With the music playing, of course.

Right from the first scene, the LP theme is genius. Not only does this medium literally spool out, turning 'round and 'round like life – till you wind down in the run-out groove – it's also legacy tech. The very sight of a phonograph record casts the mind back.

The vignettes that roll past thereafter will be recogniseable to anyone on the planet, but they have extra pathos for expats from la Belle Province: a rich reel of Québécois faces, places, and contexts that brings tears to my eyes.

Varying frame rates – slower than normal; faster; parameter – underscore the orchestral rhythms of life. It goes too fast; it goes too slow; sometimes it just goes, while we amble on unseeing. And it's all synchronised – wheels within wheels, out of our control, and for the most part beyond our comprehension.

Consider also that everyone in this dense little epigram is ten years older at this writing. The toddlers are in middle school; the small children are teenagers. The young adults have started their own journey, many including new children in turn. And some of the older subjects are almost certainly gone.

I never tire of this slide show. Another metaphor from my increasingly historical generation. As is the tone-arm return at the end, sure to provoke an emotional response in any who grew up on vinyl.

While we're up, it's also pointed Buddhist commentary on the nature of existence.

So for a tenth time, on this New Year's of 2021, I wish all my readers a promising and productive 2022, and hope to see us all back here again 12 months hence.


ON VA S'AIMER ENCORE
par Vincent Vallières

Quand on verra dans l'miroir Nos faces ridées pleines d’histoires Quand on en aura moins devant Qu’on en a maintenant Quand on aura enfin du temps Et qu’on vivra tranquillement Quand la maison s'ra payée Qu’y restera plus rien qu’à s’aimer On va s’aimer encore Au travers des doutes Des travers de la route Et de plus en plus fort On va s’aimer encore Au travers des bons coups Au travers des déboires À la vie, à la mort On va s’aimer encore Quand nos enfants vont partir Qu’on les aura vu grandir Quand ce s'ra leur tour de choisir Leur tour de bâtir Quand nos têtes seront blanches Qu’on aura de l’expérience Quand plus personne n'va nous attendre Qu’y restera plus rien qu’à s’éprendre On va s’aimer encore Au travers des doutes Des travers de la route Et de plus en plus fort On va s'aimer encore Au travers des bons coups Au travers des déboires À la vie, à la mort On va s’aimer encore Quand les temps auront changé Qu’on s'ra complètement démodés Quand toutes les bombes auront sauté Que la paix s'ra là pour rester Quand sans boussole sans plan On partira au gré du vent Quand on lèvera les voiles Devenues d'la poussière d’étoiles On va s’aimer encore Après nos bons coups Après nos déboires Et de plus en plus fort On va s’aimer encore Au bout de nos doutes Au bout de la route Au-delà de la mort On va s'aimer encore Au bout du doute Au bout de la route Au-delà de la mort On va s'aimer

When we look into the mirror And read the stories in the wrinkles When there are fewer of them ahead Than the ones we've already got And when we live peaceably With the house paid off When the only thing left for it is to love each other We'll still love each other In the doubt And the crosswalks Stronger and stronger We'll still love each other Through the triumphs And the reversals For life, till death We'll still love each other When our kids all move away When we've seen them grown When it's their turn to build Their turn to build When our hair turns white When experience is ours When no-one waits for us anymore When the only thing left to do is to fall in love again We'll still love each other In the doubt And the crosswalks Stronger and stronger We'll still love each other Through the triumphs And the reversals For life, till death We'll still love each other When the times have changed When we're completely out of style When all the bombs have exploded When peace is here to stay When, without compass or chart We'll run before the wind When we raise sails Now made of stardust We'll still love each other After our triumphs After our reversals Stronger and stronger We'll still love each other At the end of our doubts At the end of the road On the far side of death We'll still love each other Where the doubt ends When the road ends On the far side of death We'll love each other

Street Level Zen: Dependent Co-arising

« Ce qu'il faut de saleté pour faire une fleur! »

Félix Leclerc

(English translation here.)


(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

Histoire d'hiver

My mom died three nights ago. I had been looking after her for several years, managed her home hospice daily over the last six months, and as usual, was alone with her in the house when she went.

The blessing is that she went quietly, after dropping into a two-day sleep from which she did not rouse. Finally she simply declined the next breath, and that was that.

Likely the death any of us would choose if choice were given.

It's famously hard to know what to say to a person in my place. What is less well-known is how hard it is to know what to say when you're the person in my place. Aside from Issa, few meet the challenge.

Which is perhaps why one of my favourite cinematic moments has been running through my mind.

It's the last line of the brilliant Canadian coming-of-age memoir, Histoires d'hiver. As the final scene of his childhood plays out, the protagonist, now my age, says this in voiceover:

« Papa est décédé il y a quinze ans déjà, et maman, elle, la nuit dernière. Et aujourd'hui, je me sens comme un enfant qui n'a plus le choix de devenir enfin un adulte, car il n'est plus le petit gars de personne. »

(English translation here.)

I expect I'll share further meditations as they become available.

(Photo from the final scene of Histoires d'hiver. The movie itself, like most Canadian films, is difficult to find. The YouTube video linked in the text is the only source I could locate, and of course, YouTube tends to blank such things straightway.)

Rock Groups 2019

It's July, aka the Rock Moon here at the Ring, in which I share with the world my preternatural gift for naming rock groups.

Even rock groups that don't exist.

Even rock groups that should exist. So get on that, OK?

The rules remain constant:

1. All names inscribed here are available to anybody who wants one, free of any charge or obligation. You like it, you take it.

2. I can't guarantee somebody hasn't committed psychic plagiary by already naming their group one of these, so Google thoroughly before adopting one.

3. Any genre suggestions are gratuitous. If you think Les Sœurs Hospitalières would be a great name for your gritty alt-country band… have at it, pardner.

4. All I ask is that if in future someone asks you where you got that awesome name, tell them it was conferred upon you by a Zen hermit monk. Because that's a fantastic story.

And so, to those of you who are about to rock, I give you:

Rock Groups 2019

Les Ignares
The Wogs of Door (like last year's Dogs of War, but… not)
The Pie is Gone
Pygar
Les Sœurs Hospitalières (all-female medieval folk rock group)
Albatross
Grindhouse
Hammerstadt
Jessica's Bad Idea (grrrl punk)
Croatoan
OpCit
Wight
180
Puppyuppers
Stream of Conscience
Dino Arduino
Standup Tragedy
Splenetic
Bikini Chain
Drop D
Spew (gotta be metal)
Lolo Pass (country, as above)
Humphrey Dumfries and The Egg
Toxic Mail
UVB-76
The Latchkey Kids
The Knights of Stairwell
The Recipe
The Massage
Hot Mess
Cherry Red
Восток
The Synoptic Gospels and John
Заманиха
Pepper's Ghost
Punk Muppet
Icehammer
Pious Ponce
Pilot Error
Xylophobe
Angelfish
Gooseberry Jam (upbeat country rock)
Greek Fire
Cabulus
Devil's Club

(Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com and a generous photographer.)

Good Song and Video: Иероглиф

When I first heard this on Радио Русский Рок I was astonished how similar Пикник ("Picnic") sounds to Malicorne. As I listened further, a second echo surfaced: Persone. (That's not the track I'd've chosen to demonstrate, but it's not bad and the best I could find on YouTube.)

So basically you've got the fusion of three awesome groups. A harmonic convergence – no pun intended – so remarkable I could not ethically keep it to myself.

And let's not forget that all by itself, without any call-backs, the song and performance are brilliant. (Иероглиф means "Kanji" in this context.) And you can't beat those Buddhist themes.

So give it a listen, with by all means that high-def video on full screen. This is one of the rare times the visuals enhance the literature.

WW: Je me souviens

(Ah, les fois que j'ai déneigé ça. Québec, tu me manques encore.)

Street Level Zen: Attainment

« Croyez ceux qui cherchent la vérité, doutez de ceux qui la trouvent. »

André Gide

(English translation here.)

WW: Le printemps a pissé dans mon lit

Good Song: Toujours debout

Renaud was one of the heroes of my youth. Equal parts Springsteen and Dylan (to whom his voice bears an unmistakable family resemblance), his lyrics have a Villonesque flourish that only a French proletarian poet could wield. Throughout the 70s and 80s he was the public conscience of his country – often much to its dismay. Calling down national hypocrisies and – unforgivably – making merry with the French language, Renaud kept the whole nation turning on a spit.

Then he married and became a father. Some whined about the conjugal turn some of his songs took, but the halogen candour he once brought to politics he now turned on domestic life. His love songs were devastating: an adulterer begs his wife not to leave, without quite being able to articulate why not; a parent forbids the child he's just beaten to run away from home.

And then Renaud just… disappeared. Much later we'd learn that he'd poured so much alcohol on his family that his wife took the kid and left. Then he lost his recording contracts. Then his friends.

One morning eight years later he woke, showered and shaved, and called his old studio to book time.

"Not possible," he was told.

Why not?

"Renaud is dead."

Renaud assured him he was not, but with that implacability only those who know the French can fully conceive, the voice on the phone would not relent.

In the end he had to call a collaborator from his previous life, and, after a similar conversation, ask him to call the studio and book time.

The result of those sessions was 2002's Boucane d'enfer (a play on "unholy racket" and "whiff of Hell"), Renaud's all-time bestselling album.

I wish the story ended there, but sadly the intervening years have brought relapses: lost weekends, lost weeks, lost months; a second wife departed with a second child. Renaud battles addiction like a rat with a boa constrictor: he survives, but he doesn't win.

And the press haven't been kind, to say no more.

Which is why this song, appearing after yet another long silence, belted out in Renaud's trademark working-Paris growl, grown breathless and broken, hit me so hard.

Because it sounds just like him, and so different. Because his voice reminds me of my past, and also of my own serial resurrections. And because I've always loved curses spat in the face of a bully.

Here-follow the lyrics. As usual the translation is mine, and it's been the usual heartbreaking grind. How do you land the one-two punch of « Qui me dépriment, et qui m'impriment » with the English "Who depress me and print me?" (You'll see what I went with below.)

There's also profound poignance in a hooligan like Renaud suddenly opting for the inoffensive; « nom de nom », a softer form of the French "God dammit!", has a pathos that "dang it" doesn't really convey.

More globally, the song just comes off as more petulant and defensive in English. The original French is more along the lines of "nice try, dickweeds", with a warm sense of renewal and reunion.

But not to translate would leave non-francophone readers in the dark, and that's not something I'm prepared to do.

So, with apologies for the treason, the gist:

TOUJOURS DEBOUT
par Renaud

Toujours vivant, rassurez-vous Toujours la banane, toujours debout J'suis retapé, remis sur pieds Droit sur mes guibolles, ressuscité Tous ceux qui tombent autour de moi C'est l'hécatombe, c'est Guernica Tous ceux qui tombent, tombent à tour de bras Et moi je suis toujours là Toujours vivant, rassurez-vous Toujours la banane, toujours debout Il est pas né ou mal barré Le crétin qui voudra m'enterrer J'fais plus les télés, j'ai même pas internet Arrêté de parler aux radios, aux gazettes Ils m'ont cru disparu, on me croit oublié Dites à ces trous du cul, j'continue d'chanter Et puis tous ces chasseurs de primes Paparazzis en embuscade Qui me dépriment, et qui m'impriment Que des ragots, que des salades Toutes ces rumeurs sur ma santé On va pas en faire une affaire Et que celui qui n'a jamais titubé Me jette la première bière Toujours vivant, rassurez vous Toujours la banane, toujours debout Il est pas né ou mal barré L'idiot qui voudrait m'remplacer Je dois tout l'temps faire gaffe Derrière chaque buisson A tous ces photographes Qui vous prennent pour des cons Ceux là m'ont enterré Un peu prématuré Dites à ces enfoirés j'continue d'chanter Mais je n'vous ai jamais oublié Et pour ceux à qui j'ai manqué Vous les fidèles, je reviens vous dire merci Vous m'avez manqué vous aussi Trop content de vous retrouver Je veux continuer nom de nom Continuer à écrire et à chanter Chanter pour tous les sauvageons Toujours vivant, rassurez-vous Toujours la banane, toujours debout Il est pas né ou mal barré Le couillon qui voudra m'enterrer Depuis quelques années, je me suis éloigné Je vis près des lavandes sous les oliviers Ils m'ont cru disparu, on me croit oublié Ces trous du cul peuvent continuer d'baver Moi sur mon p'tit chemin j'continue d'chanter

Still alive, rest assured Still smiling, still standing I'm reconditioned, back on my feet Steady on my pins, resuscitated People falling all around This place is a slaughterhouse, it's like Guernica All these people falling, discarded en masse And me still here Still alive, rest assured Still smiling, still standing Ain't been born, or else just out of luck The jerk who's gonna bury me Don't do no more TV, don't even have Internet Don't talk to radio or newspaper types They thought I was dead, think I'm forgotten Tell those assholes I'm still singing And then all those bounty hunters Ambush paparazzi Who depress and im-press me All the scams and scandals All these rumours about my health We won't pay them any mind And let him who has never stumbled Buy the first round Still alive, rest assured Still smiling, still standing Ain't been born, or else just out of luck The jerk who's gonna displace me I gotta always look Behind every bush For those photographers Who think you're all dumbshits Those guys buried me A bit too soon Tell those jackasses I'm still singing But I never forgot you And to those who missed me You the faithful, I'm back to say thank you I missed you, too Delighted to see you're still here I want to carry on, dang it Carry on writing and singing Singing for all the untamed Still alive, rest assured Still smiling, still standing Ain't been born, or else just out of luck The wanker who's gonna bury me I've been away for a few years Living close the ground, beneath the olive trees They thought I was dead, they think I've been forgotten Let the assholes blather on Here on my little journey, I'm still singing

(1978 photo of Renaud Séchan courtesy of Paul Kiuj and Wikimedia Commons.)

New Year's Song: Et dans 150 ans

To commemorate this New Year's Day 2015 I offer a meditation on the passage of time. My brother's poetry here is so powerful I first took him for a Canadian. But on second listening I thought, no.

No. The prosody, the peculiar flow of his French; his unflinching insight, his cool under fire. This-here is a Frenchman.

Except better. Raphaël Haroche's father is a Moroccan Jew of Russian descent; his mother is Argentine. In other words, dude's a perfect storm. Prepare for bone-crystallising kensho.

Having said that, I should warn non-francophones that, as Canadian literary critic Mavis Gallant pointed out, "When poetry is translated, the result is either not faithful, not poetry, or not English." Here the author spins kaleidoscopic metaphors and convoluted word play (e.g., "bad choices" can also be "wrong guesses"; "let's drink to the street trash" becomes "let's leave them our empty coffins" when you turn it a certain way); as translator, I could only pick a shade and run with it. With luck the music and intonations will salvage some lost depth (and soften the stilted, un-English sequence of images) for non-French-speaking readers.

Finally, since the visuals in Raphaël's videos are famous for being a whole second song, I strongly recommend that you first just listen, without viewing, while reading the lyrics (below). That way your own impressions won't get wangled. Then, play the video again and just watch it, without reading. Mind blown a second time.

ET DANS 150 ANS
par Raphaël

Et dans 150 ans, on s'en souviendra pas De ta première ride, de nos mauvais choix, De la vie qui nous baise, de tous ces marchands d'armes, Des types qui votent les lois là-bas au gouvernement, De ce monde qui pousse, de ce monde qui crie, Du temps qui avance, de la mélancolie, La chaleur des baisers et cette pluie qui coule, Et de l'amour blessé et de tout ce qu'on nous roule, Alors souris. Dans 150 ans, on s'en souviendra pas De la vieillesse qui prend, de leurs signes de croix, De l'enfant qui se meurt, des vallées du Tiers monde, Du salaud de chasseur qui descend la colombe, De ce que t'étais belle, et des rives arrachées, Des années sans sommeil, 100 millions d'affamés Des portes qui se referment de t'avoir vue pleurer, De la course solennelle qui condamne sans ciller, Alors souris. Et dans 150 ans, on n'y pensera même plus À ce qu'on a aimé, à ce qu'on a perdu, Allez vidons nos bières pour les voleurs des rues! Finir tous dans la terre, mon dieu! Quelle déconvenue. Et regarde ces squelettes qui nous regardent de travers, Et ne fais pas la tête, ne leur fais pas la guerre, Il leur restera rien de nous, pas plus que d'eux, J'en mettrais bien ma main à couper ou au feu, Alors souris. Et dans 150 ans, mon amour, toi et moi, On sera doucement, dansant, 2 oiseaux sur la croix, Dans ce bal des classés, encore je vois large, P't'être qu'on sera repassés dans un très proche, un naufrage, Mais y a rien d'autre à dire, je veux rien te faire croire, Mon amour, mon amour, j'aurai le mal de toi, Mais y a rien d'autre à dire, je veux rien te faire croire, Mon amour, mon amour, j'aurai le mal de toi, Mais que veux-tu?

And in 150 years we won't remember Your first wrinkle, our bad choices How life screwed us over, and all those weapons dealers Who work for the men who pass laws for the government This pushy world, this screaming world The march of time, the melancholy The warmth of the kisses, and how the rain trickled And the love lost, and the ways they get you And so we must smile. In 150 years we won't remember How age subtracts, and hypocrisy crosses itself The dying children, the depths of the Third World The asshole hunters who blow away doves How beautiful you were, and the things ripped away The years without sleep, and 100 million hungry How doors swing shut if people see you cry The universal impulse to condemn without qualm And so we must smile. And in 150 years, we won't even recall The things we loved, and those we lost Come on, let's drink to the street trash! My God, we'll all end up in the ground! Such a disappointment! Just look how those skeletons sneer at us But don't glare back; don't make war on them They'll keep nothing of us -- or themselves -- in the end As well cut off my hands, or burn them And so we must smile. And in 150 years, my love, you and I Will be – softly, dancing – two birds carved on a tombstone In this high school prom for dropouts, I'm looking beyond Maybe we'll come back some day; shipwrecked, perhaps But there's nothing for it, and I don't want to lie My love, my love, I'll miss you so But there's nothing for it, and I don't want to lie My love, my love, I'll miss you so But what can we do?

He's right, brothers and sisters. In 150 years, no-one will remember a thing we've done or said, or that we ever lived; for the vast majority of us, our very names will never be pronounced again.

You can take it for cruelty or compassion, but you can't change it. Our human being survives time like a beetle survives a millstone. And in the same form.

May we all cultivate, in the coming year, that which endures.