L'obstacle
J'adore la France.
France is a very unique country coming from many different perspectives, but the most important, I believe, is its artistry. The french make art like no other folk in the world, and may be considered one of the best examples of what to do in any artistic field, due to the natural creativity those people are born with, and the originality and inventiveness they have when putting ideas on paper. But the roots of my love for France are not located in any Victor Hugo, in any Zola, Jules Verne, but in the dark heart full of rebellion of Sade, Baudelaire, Laclos, and later on, now in my lifetime, in fact, Julia Lanoë, Antha and Kincy, Olivier Urman, Ducournau and, hell, even Pascal Laugier. Art in France is entangled around all it's étages, therefore, both in the high first numbers of the podium, and down there in the audience throwing tomatoes; the latter a product of rebellion, of a subversiveness in favor of freedom, and an undeniable desire of having the spotlight for themselves.
To me, an outsider, art in France feels like a constant fight for attention. Everybody screaming equality and, reaching the top, spitting at the by-passers on the sidewalk. Like a blind fight for a kind of justice already achieved, as if the populace was still enraged for the almighty ruling of absolutism even though Louis XVI is well dead and buried. Fighting a Bastille everyday, like a bunch of Dom Quixotes. But above all, forging such shiny and beautiful weapons, moving with such dign grace, that I can't help but drool over all it.
One of these weapons is the imponent manifesto of "L'obstacle", a song by the group Musique Post-Bourgoise, from an album of same name that can be found here. Just yesterday I wrote a couple translations, in both english and brasilian portuguese that can be read on this .pdf. I opted on making a document file for it because the formatting here would be quite the effort. So enjoy it, as much as you can, but take it all with a grain of salt since, as you will notice eventually, french is not even close to my first language, or second, or third, and translating this song was much more an exercise for my french practice than something I would print on paper. But if you have any observations that could help me improve this translation, don't hesitate in sending an e-mail. My e-mail address can be found in the About tab. [OUTDATED]
Also, thanks to Renzo, on Github, for the transcription.
As of January 30th, 2023: Having reviewed the translations, corrected some mistakes, and now having learned how to use < br>, here's the new and improved french-transcription/english-translation/portuguese-translation of Musique post-bourgoise's "L'obstacle".
Musique post-bourgeoise’s “L’obstacle”
(French transcription)
J’ai bu un café. Ou plutôt non, je ne l’a pas bu, je l’ai pris.
Un café noir. Noir comme une image. Noir comme un cierge. Noir comme une massue.
Je l’ai avalé entièrement, en une seule fois, dans un tasse blanche en porcelaine de Gien.
C’était bien du café. Je l’ai reconnu tout de suite. C’est toujours lui, c’est toujours le même café.
Il peut se réveler à moi sous différentes formes, je sais que c’est lui qui revient vers moi. Je le sais parcequ’il me reconnaît aussi.
Il me regarde le boire. Il me regarde intensément comme un café peut regarder.
C’est toujours le même café. Je bois toujours le même café avec la même bouche, avec la même langue.
C’est toujours le même bras, les même doigts, les même ongles.
C’est toujours la même tranche de pain, toujours la même colonne de fourmis, toujours la même table pliante, toujours le même obstacle.
C’est toujours la même fin de semaine qui commence le lundi.
Toujours la même carotte que j’épluche.
Toujours le même poulet qui jauni dans le four.
Toujours la même promenade.
Toujours la même passant qui marche en silence.
C’est toujours le même vieux qui me tend ses lèvres.
Toujours le même touriste qui prend la même photo.
Toujours la même démangeaison.
C’est toujours la même cadavre dont on balaie les poussières.
Toujours le même feu rouge qu’on déplace à chaque carrefour.
C’est toujours la même main que je serre pour la dernière fois.
Toujours la même bombe humaine qui explose en avance.
Toujours la même falaise qui vous appelle.
C’est toujours la même baffe qu’on se refile les uns aux autres.
Toujours la même cuillère qu’on lèche mal.
C’est toujours la même pointe de fer qu’on enforce encore.
Toujours le même orifice qui se ferme.
Toujours la même tête de monstre qu’on remonte dans la nasse.
Toujours la même barre de seuil qu’on arrache.
C’est toujours la même ambulance qui perd son sang froid.
Toujours le même bras de fer qui casse.
Toujours la même balle dans la même cervelle.
Toujours la même caresse dans le sens des fesses.
Toujours le même pourboire aux aveugles.
Toujours le même score qui s’affiche.
Toujours le même dent qu’on arrache.
Toujours le même bidon d’essence vide.
Toujours le même frein qui lâche.
Pas la peine de construire une tour, c’est toujours le même étage.
Pas la peine de dormir, c’est toujours la même nuit.
Pas la peine de zapper la télé, c’est toujours la même chaîne.
Pas la peine de s’habiller en pute, c’est toujours le même client.
Pas la peine de chauffer plus fort, c’est toujours le même feu.
Et si tu veux faire briller tes reliques par la peine de frotter, c’est toujours le même dieu.
Tous les trous n’en font qu’un.
Toutes les souffrances ne font qu’une seule plaie.
Tous les jours ne font qu’une journée.
Tous les murs sont faits de lamentations.
Tous les wagons ne forment qu’un seul train.
Tous les aéroports n’ont qu’une seule piste.
Et il n’y a qu’un seul hélicoptère, une seule voiture, un seul vélo, un seul mot pour dire: À cheval! À cheval! À cheval!
La tasse dans la tasse.
Je crache dans l’impasse, et ressort exfiltré la bouche poudrée d’or à travers, l’obstacle.
Tous les trous n’en font qu’un.
Toutes les souffrances ne font qu’une plaie.
Tous les jours ne font qu’une journée.
Tous les murs sont faits de lamentations.
Tous les wagons ne forment qu’un seul train.
Tous les aéroports n’ont qu’une seule piste.
Et il n’y a qu’un seul hélicoptère, une seule voiture, un seul vélo, un seul mot pour dire: L’obstacle!
[...]
Musique post-bourgeoise's "L'obstacle"
(English translation)
I'd drunk a cup of coffee. Or rather not, I didn't drink it, I took it.
Black coffee. Black as a picture. Black as a candle. Black as a dungeon.
I took all of it, in one go, from a Gien porcelain cup.
It was good coffee. I recognized it immediately. It's always the same, always the same coffee.
It may present itself in many different forms, but I know that it's always the same. I know it because it recognizes me too.
It watches me drink. It watches me drink, with just as much intensity as a coffee can spare.
It's always the same coffee. I drink always the same coffee with the same mouth, with the same tongue.
It's always the same arm, the same fingers, the same nails.
It's always the same slice of bread, always the same column of ants, always the same folding table, always the same obstacle.
It's always the same weekend that starts the Monday.
Always the same carrot that I peel.
Always the same chicken that roasts inside the oven.
Always the same walk I take.
Always the same passer-by that stroll in silence.
It's always the same old man who offers me his lips.
Always the same tourist that takes the same photo.
It's always the same itch.
It's always the same corpse whose dust we sweep away.
Always the same red light that moves at each crossroads.
It's always the same hand that I shake for the last time.
Always the same human bomb that explodes in advance.
Always the same abyss that talks back to me.
It's always the same slap we hit each other with.
Always the same spoon we don't lick right.
It's always the same nail that we hammer down.
Always the same orifice that closes.
Always the same monster's head we put back in the trap.
Always the same threshold we tear apart.
It's always the same ambulance that loses its cool.
Always the same standoff that breaks.
Always the same bullet inside the same brain.
Always the same caress to the bottoms.
Always the same change to the blind.
Always the same score that's displayed.
Always the same tooth that's pulled out.
Always the same empty gas can.
Always the same break that lets go.
No need to build a tower, it's always the same floor.
No need to go to sleep, it's always the same night.
No need to change the channel, it's always the same show.
No need to dress like a whore, it's always the same client.
No need to turn up the heat, it's always the same fire.
And if you want to make your relics shine by the trouble of polishing, no need for that also, it's always the same god.
All holes are but one.
All suffering is but one wound.
All days are the same.
All walls are made of wailing.
All wagons form a single train.
All airports have the same runway.
And there's only one helicopter, one car, one bike, one word to say: À cheval! À cheval! À cheval!*
The cup inside the cup.
I spit on the impasse and emerge exfiltrated —, my mouth covered in golden dust, — through the obstacle.
All holes are but one.
All suffering is but one wound.
All days are the same.
All walls are made of wailing.
All wagons form a single train.
All airports have the same runway.
And there's only one helicopter, one car, one bike, one word to say: L'obstacle!**
[...]
*"À cheval!", in translation, is "On horseback!". But here I left it as the original in french due to the strong, dramatic effect it has in the performance.
**"L'obstacle!", in translation, is "The obstacle!". Check previous note.
Musique post-bourgeoise’s “L’obstacle”
(Portuguese translation)
Bebi um café. Ou melhor, não o bebi, tomei.
Um café negro. Negro como uma imagem. Negro como uma vela. Negro como um calabouço.
Eu o bebi todo de uma só vez, de uma xícara branca, de porcelana, da Gien.
Era bom café, reconheci logo. Era o mesmo café, o mesmo café de todos os dias.
Poderia ele se revelar a mim em suas diferentes formas, o reconheceria ainda assim. Sei disso pois ele me reconheceria também.
Ele me assiste enquanto bebo. Ele assiste a mim com toda a intensidade a que um café pode dispor.
É sempre o mesmo café. Eu bebo sempre o mesmo café com a mesma boca, com a mesma língua.
É sempre o mesmo braço, os mesmos dedos, as mesmas unhas.
É sempre a mesma fatia de pão, sempre a mesma fileira de formigas, sempre a mesma mesa dobrável, sempre o mesmo obstáculo.
É sempre o mesmo fim-de-semana que precede a Segunda
Sempre a mesma cenoura que descasco.
Sempre o mesmo frango a dourar no forno.
Sempre a mesma caminhada.
Sempre o mesmo passante a andar em silêncio.
É sempre o mesmo velho a me oferecer os lábios.
Sempre o mesmo turista a tirar a mesma foto.
Sempre a mesma coceira insaciável.
É sempre o mesmo cadáver cuja poeira varremos.
Sempre a mesma luz vermelha a mover-se em cada cruzamento.
É sempre a mesma mão que aperto pela última vez.
Sempre a mesma bomba-humana a explodir antes da hora.
Sempre o mesmo abismo a me responder.
É sempre o mesmo tapa com que atingimos um ao outro.
Sempre a mesma colher que não lambemos por completo.
É sempre o mesmo prego a que martelamos.
Sempre o mesmo orifício a se fechar.
Sempre a mesma cabeça de monstro que colocamos de volta na armadilha.
Sempre o mesmo limite que quebramos.
É sempre a mesma ambulância a acelerar.
Sempre a mesma queda-de-braço a ser disputada.
Sempre o mesmo afago à mesma bunda.
Sempre o mesmo trocado para os cegos.
Sempre o mesmo placar a ser mostrado.
Sempre o mesmo dente a ser puxado.
Sempre o mesmo tanque sem gasolina.
Sempre o mesmo pedal a se pisado.
Não há porquê construir um prédio, é sempre o mesmo andar.
Não há porquê dormir, é sempre a mesma noite.
Não há porquê zapear a TV, é sempre o mesmo canal.
Não há porquê vestir-se como uma puta, é sempre o mesmo cliente.
Não há porquê aumentar o gás, é sempre o mesmo fogo.
E se quiser fazer brilhar seus ídolos pelo esforço de os polir, saiba que também não há porquê, é sempre o mesmo deus.
Todo buraco é igual.
Toda ferida causa o mesmo sofrimento.
Todo dia é o mesmo dia.
Todo muro é feito de lamentações.
Todos os vagões formam o mesmo trem.
Todo aeroporto tem a mesma pista.
E há somente um helicóptero, um só carro, uma só bicicleta, uma só palavra a dizer: À cavalo! À cavalo!
À cavalo!
A xícara dentro da xícara.
Eu escarro no impasse e escapo ileso —, a boca como feita d'ouro, — através do obstáculo.
Todo buraco é igual.
Toda ferida causa o mesmo sofrimento.
Todo dia é o mesmo dia.
Todo muro é feito de lamentações.
Todos os vagões formam o mesmo trem.
Todo aeroporto tem a mesma pista.
E há somente um helicóptero, um só carro, uma só bicicleta, uma só palavra a dizer: O obstáculo!
[...]