The day before you came

 
Must have left my house at eight, because I always do
My train, I'm certain, left the station just when it was due
I must have read the morning paper going into town
And having gotten through the editorial, no doubt I must have frowned
I must have made my desk around a quarter after nine
With letters to be read, and heaps of papers waiting to be signed
I must have gone to lunch at half past twelve or so
The usual place, the usual bunch
And still on top of this I'm pretty sure it must have rained
The day before you came

I must have lit my seventh cigarette at half past two
And at the time I never even noticed I was blue
I must have kept on dragging through the business of the day
Without really knowing anything, I hid a part of me away
At five I must have left, there's no exception to the rule
A matter of routine, I've done it ever since I finished school
The train back home again
Undoubtedly I must have read the evening paper then
Oh yes, I'm sure my life was well within it's usual frame
The day before you came

Must have opened my front door at eight o'clock or so
And stopped along the way to buy some Chinese food to go
I'm sure I had my dinner watching something on TV
There's not, I think, a single episode of Dallas that I didn't see
I must have gone to bed around a quarter after ten
I need a lot of sleep, and so I like to be in bed by then
I must have read a while
The latest one by Marilyn French or something in that style
It's funny, but I had no sense of living without aim
The day before you came

And turning out the light
I must have yawned and cuddled up for yet another night
And rattling on the roof I must have heard the sound of rain
The day before you came

One of the last singles by ABBA, released in 1982, after the break-up of both marriages making up the band and prior to actual bitter dismemberment of the quartet. Not as widely known as other, easier, more ear-catching songs by ABBA, by many underrated and standing out among earlier works of the band. Unlike most songs from the period when the band enjoyed unfaltering popularity (1976-1981) this one is not energising and does not have features of a catchy tune sung along by people from different walks of life across the globe. It is filled with far bigger dose of melancholy than more famous songs from ABBA’s late-fame period (The Winner Takes It All or One of Us) and though the very lyrics seem depressing, the very title reminds it is never too late for a change, yet how it comes about remains a mystery.

The wikipedia article on the song is remarkably exhaustive and apart from depicting background of the song, includes several interpretation of its lyrics

Until the end of the world

Haven't seen you in quite a while
I was down the hold just passing time
Last time we met was a low-lit room
We were as close together as a bride and groom
We ate the food, we drank the wine
Everybody having a good time
Except you
You were talking about the end of the world

I took the money
I spiked your drink
You miss too much these days if you stop to think
You lead me on with those innocent eyes
You know I love the element of surprise
In the garden I was playing the tart
I kissed your lips and broke your heart
You...you were acting like it was
The end of the world

In my dream I was drowning my sorrows
But my sorrows, they learned to swim
Surrounding me, going down on me
Spilling over the brim
Waves of regret and waves of joy
I reached out for the one I tried to destroy
You...you said you'd wait
'til the end of the world

 

If there is a perfect song on the leitmotiv of guilt, the U2’s song is for me an undisputable candidate for it.

According to the most common interpretation, the lyrics illustrate the last momenta of the relationship between Judas Iscariot and Jesus, told from the perspective of the former. References to biblical story, including the last supper, betrayal in the garden and Judas overwhelmed with pang of conscience appear clear, but somehow I have never been fond of this elucidation. Mentioning ‘being close together like bride and groom’, or ‘playing the tart’ verges on hinting on a homosexual relationship between Jesus and Judas Iscariot, which would have been a pure sacrilege.

From the first time I heard it, in late 2002, I have construed the song as a confession of a man who seduced a woman and is full of remorse on account of his deeds. “Until the end of the world” has besides and thus has a very personal dimension for me.

Today, while sitting about in an empty office, trying to oversee content-related aspects of a new supporting IT tool for underwriters (incidentally, I believe this will be a huge botch-up, the implementation phase reveals this is bound to fuck things up, rather than revamping the current process, this always happens when a man is harness to serve its tools, not other way round), I let my mind drift away and pondered upon relationships between women and men, or rather a single facet of them, namely why usually women pair up with older man. The reasons why men fall for younger women are quite obvious (albeit I have not reached the age when younger girls would impress me and still prefer a bit older ones), while motives behind women’s preference of older males remain a bit puzzling for me. I know women seek mature, responsible, wealthier guys, but are these the only reasons? Is it the matter of cultural stereotypes, stating a male should be older? I believe in the era of thriving liberties such prejudices should not play any role. Among the readers of this blog there are surely men married to much (more than 5 years) younger women, so maybe they wield the key to the door? Or maybe before posting comments they should take their wives’ advice?

Tomorrow the main opposition party will host a debate of economists on its recently announced economic agenda, by many hailed as disastrous for public finances. Many renowned economist are expected to turn up, albeit some eminent figures, such as dr hab. Leszek Balcerowicz and governor of the central bank, prof. Marek Belka declined to attend it. The debate will be held tomorrow at 10:00 a.m., so I will not be able to keep track of it and hope I will find an extensive on-line transcript of it. This will help me not only assess key proposals in PiS’ economic agenda, but also review the economists’ stance on it. I hope the discussion will be purely substantive and I am looking forward to more such initiatives. PiS have finally showed they want to do something to move Poland forward, rather than simply slating the government (faring worse and worse indeed).

Meteorologists are forecasting a full-blowm summer to come over around the next weekend. Temperatures in the last days of September are said to hit +30C which would mean record-breaking temperatures during astronomical autumn. So if this comes to a pass, the coverage of the debate might be delayed by one week, so I am apologising in advance. If the last of the summer beckons, resisting to indulge in outdoor activities would not be forgiven.

Perfect - Autobiografia - the third stab at it

These days, where ordinary pulp stands for popular music it's good to look back on the days I can't even remember and reminesce the timeless, magnificent songs. Those with lofty lyrics, carrying several messages between the lines, telling remarkable stories, memorable, embedded in deeper cultural or historical context, are particlarly hard to translate into a foreign language.

One of such songs is Autobiografia, by Perfect. The song was released in 1982, in the dead of martial law and tells a story of one man's life, set in the gloom and hopelessness of socialist Poland.

I've long planned to translate it into English. The task was to be particularly difficult, a few times I set out to do it, to no avail. Just a few days ago I discovered other English-language bloggers had read my mind and had done the job. Pacze Moj dedicated two posts, with two different translations, one more literal, the other more poetical. Then it turned out Pan Steeva had another try on it. As native speakers they've done a great job, I, as a Pole, would not be capable of. But after all I read Pan Steeva's version and decided to enhance it a little bit.

The final translation below (copyrights generally attibuted to Pacze Moj, Pan Steeva and Student SGH).

I was only ten:

We first heard about him then;

In my basement was our club.

My pal's radio played:

Then 'Blue Suede Shoes' I first heard

And I couldn't sleep that night.

Wind of change would blow

The imprisoned were let go

Once again, we laughed and joked.

Café’s buzzing scene,

Like tornadoes, jazz blew clean:

Just to play

My wish was.

Father, God knows where

Those days he would go astray.

Me? My finger nail came off,

Shavings out of picks

Played the guitar, learnt the tricks.

And I found the thrill of sex.

Music Postcard craze,

Found five hundred in those days;

Not a single pair of jeans

Come Saturday night

Was Luxembourg, drinks, free house

And we felt

Lust for life!

There were us three.

Though in our blood we were free,

With one goal stuck deep in our minds:

In several years,

Have the world at our heels,

Never hard up.

Alpaga plonk,

And discussions 'til dawn,

Our spirits were always awake.

Who punched whose nose?

And whose tears for this flowed

Things happening.

Separated us,

Perfect Pola Raska's face;

All ready to lay down our lives.

On a summer night,

On a blanket in moonlight,

What I wanted then, I found.

She said quick to me that our problems they might be.

I just had my homework done;

She turned up the heat.

After some time, we don't meet.

Once again,

Me alone.

Roles go in vain,

they can't relieve my pain

Life has taught me much more than they did.

Dossed on the floor,

I was wasting my time.

My greatest time

Pub far away

Klezmer asked me to play;

So much rubbish that still I go red.

One certain day,

Figured out that I knew:

Nothing at all.

Hearing my past,

Overcoming at last

Coming real was my greatest dream then

The thousandth crowd,

Drinking words from my mouth,

All loving me.

A hotel, a fan,

Saying "recorder I ran

That's just how a real throat should sing".

I open the door,

Saying nothing at all:

Walls never can

So it was doable. Are there still untranslatable songs, or does it just take a skillful translator to render the lyrics, rhymes, subtexts?

Hats off to all skillful translators (no, not to me).

Another busy weekend ahead, next posting comes probably on Thursday, when I'm taking a day off.

Psalm stojących w kolejce / Queuers’ psalm

Za czym kolejka ta stoi?
Po szarość, po szarość, po szarość.
Na co w kolejce tej czekasz?
Na starość, na starość, na starość.
Co kupisz, gdy dojdziesz?
Zmęczenie, zmęczenie, zmęczenie.
Co przyniesiesz do domu?
Kamienne zwątpienie, zwątpienie

Bądź jak kamień, stój, wytrzymaj
Kiedyś te kamienie drgną
I polecą jak lawina
Przez noc.
Przez noc
Przez noc.

What are they queuing for?
For greyness, for greyness, for greyness.
What are you waiting about for?
For old age, for old age, for old age.
What will you buy when it’s your turn?
Tiredness, tiredness, tiredness.
What will you bring home?
Doubt, doubt, stone doubt.

Be like stone, stand, withstand.
We will leave no stone unturned.
And they’ll slide like an avalanche
Through the night
Through the night

I can’t proudly admit I managed to retain the rhythm, singing my translation would be a breakneck task, but there’s a reason to look back on the bleak days just before Solidarity rose up.