Sunday, December 3, 2017

Ironic Advent 2017 #1: A Landslide Brought It Down and Other Things That Sound Like They Mean Something

Ironic Advent 2017 #1: A Landslide Brought It Down 
and Other Things That Sound Like They Actually Mean Something






[a rare actual photo of Ben Camino, engulfed by a big, freakin' moon]

It's been a beautiful day or two, for December, if you can stand ordinary time. Me, I've been chomping at the bit for Advent to get here, so it's been a pain, global warming and all. Yes, last night the sky was amazing, including the forerunner to tonight's even-more-amazing moon. The clouds were unlike any I'd ever seen before in texture. OK, maybe I'm exaggerating, but it's time you start readjusting to the Ben Camino universe dear ones where the difference between reality and . . . what I tell you to think gets blurry. 

Anyway, or anyways as a former good friend of mine used to say and my daughter Jennifer still does, the sky was just . . . whoa. So, because I was in Ohio, I happened to comment to an Ohioan how whoa the sky was. And, of course, being an Ohioan, never to be outdone by a Hoosier, my respondent assured me that the sky in Ohio was quite regularly this irregular and, in fact, was invariably weird. I gave up, at least for the time being, knowing I would have an opportunity for payback in my first Ironic Advent post for 2017. 

In a minute I'm going to talk about the big freakin' moon. Right now I just want to say how sad it is that I, Ben Camino, also known as your Advent servant, am inside writing this meditation, while THAT moon is still out there haunting us. I'm getting texts that say things like "look at the moon," by people who must a.) think I have lost my eyesight or b.) know that I'm probably just being morose and refusing to acknowledge the beauty of the creation of c.) writing an Ironic Advent Meditation. More on the moon in a minute. And I promise that I will eventually get to "Landslide (brought it down)." 

But I realize that some of you may have some questions about Advent. And, even more of you, who may (but probably don't) understand Advent, have questions about Ben Camino and Ironic Advent Meditations. To you good people I say the following: please don't make me go through all this again. At least not yet. For several years now, I have written these meditations during the season of Advent (and usually twelve more for the twelve days of Christmas). I can't explain what Advent is right now, but here is a link to a previous attempt. And the best way to understand Ben Camino and Ironic Advent Meditations is to read them all tonight before you go to bed, starting with the ones from December 2012. If not, you can just relax and learn as you go (and read some of the old ones when you have some extra time). 

Anyway(s), that is some big freakin' moon out there. And if you are in some part of the Muggle universe that doesn't have access to . . . the moon, please refer to the photo of me above, taken earlier tonight on the bridge over the Sydney Harbour. You doubt this, Muggle? And everybody is all crazy about the moon, giving it cool names, like cold moon, and doing strange dances to mandolin music. Oh, no, that was the little girls who were dancing to my song tonight at the public library. But still, it might have been the moon too. Earlier (ten minutes ago) I did some in-depth research through the first-thing-that-comes-up-on-Google-Search method when I typed in "big, freakin' moon on December 3" and this is what I got:

"In December, winter sets in and the Full Moon is called the Cold Moon. It is also called Long Nights Moon, and the Moon before Yule. ... The December Full Moon is also called Oak Moon, while a Celtic name was Wolf Moon." 

A likely story. That's someone's way of saying that they have no earthly (intended) idea what this moon is called (interestingly, the article goes on to say that "in Ohio culture, it is commonly known as the plain old ordinary everyday Moon and they are not amazed"). I say, if you call it everything then you are calling it nothing. But  Ben Camino, who lives in the alternate universe of the liturgical year, knows. It's called the big freakin' Advent Moon

Consider the gospel reading of the day from Saint Luke, not to mention the ones from the Book of Bokonon which I will omit for the present.   

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon [the Amplified Version has BIG FREAKIN' MOON], and the stars,
and on earth nations will be in dismay,
perplexed by the roaring of the sea and the waves.
People* will die of fright
in anticipation of what is coming upon the world,
for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.
And then they will see the Son of Man
coming in a cloud with power and great glory.


[*the original Greek excludes Ohioans who will have no reaction] 

Are you seeing what I'm seeing? Nations in dismay. Big Freakin' Full Cold Long Nights Yule Oak Wolf Moon. People are afraid, wondering what in hayall is going on down on our little planet under the big freakin' moon. 

Which reminds me of this guy I met at an open mic a couple of weeks ago. I wrote a poem about it. It goes like this. 

Strangely moved tonight
by the old hippy (with the perfect white pony tail)
not at all hiding his hearing aid
required no doubt by way too much Led Zeppelin II once upon a 70s time
covering Stevie Nick's "Landslide"
complete with billy goat treble
probably just his own voice now
not an imitation of her or anyone else's 
particular billy boat treble
he omits though the gypsy dance moves
and pouty lips 
which I would have thought obligatory for a Stevie Nicks' song.
it is, in truth, a lovely song though
though I'm afraid it really more feels like it means something
than it really does mean something
which may be what it means
at least to me
sitting here waiting to do my own song
which one guy who heard it called
"the saddest song ever written" 
although I'm working to remedy that

Whoa! That has to be the worst transition ever by Ben Camino. Let's just say I'm kind of anxious to get outside and howl for awhile. I have always thought it understandable how pagans of all sorts have worshiped the moon. I am at my most "religious," I suppose,  when I consider the heavens, including the moon. Which religion is not always clear. 

Anyway(s), I keep thinking I know what "Landslide" is about, and I'm sure that most people either know or think they know. It's doesn't seem to be a particularly complex song. But it doesn't work. Not really. I've looked at it several times with this in mind, and I will share the diagrams upon request. For now, let me once again say that it is indeed a lovely song. And it's kind of sad. I think. And I'm not sure what else, including what "it" the landslide brought down. IF you know, don't tell me. Don't ruin my love of ambiguity. 

And the moon? OK, give it all the names that Google Search can come up with. Here are the most important things about this moon: Awe, loveliness, fear, worship, majesty, a god, the feeling that I'm not a god, LOVE.

I don't know what comes next. People dying of fright? The Son of Man coming in power? A baby born in Bethlehem or Benghazi? More old guys covering Stevie Nicks?

I love words. And I love what they tell us. And I know that most of what words tell us is how lovely words are and how hard it is to understand anything down here under the moon. Under the heavens (whatever that means). 

"Words and music will never touch the beauty that I see in you" wrote Jackson Browne. I'd say that words and music are just about as haunted as . . . the rest of the universe. And maybe that's why I like a haunted song like"Landslide" (whatever version, with or without gypsy dance and pouty lips). And maybe that's why I love Advent. 

Like Charlie Brown deciding again to kick the football, I keep coming back. I guess I'm hoping or maybe dreaming that this year the football of meaning and love will stabilize a bit. I feel what I really hope for, although I'm not sure if I can say it. In "Weight of Glory," C. S. Lewis said “In speaking of this desire for our own far off country . . . I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia." Like Cold Moon. Like Christmas. Like the heavens. Like the saddest song ever written. We gesture towards it. It might take a god to rip it out of us.

In fact, the other day, a god came down to Ohio and ripped open the hearts of a few thousand people who had seen it all and knew how ordinary it all was. The locals said it was nothing special. Sadly, for them, they were right. 

The moon is still shining, and I'm headed out to get my heart ripped open. Again. If I live through the apocalypses promised in today's gospel, I promise to waste several thousand words in the weeks ahead on you my friends, my readers, my judges, my secret admirers, my would-be assassins.

You will all misunderstand my words. This is what we Can know. But I hope they touch you, sadden you, thrill you, anger you, haunt you, elate you, and rip you open. Yes, I've got my annual Advent ache, not to be confused with my usual everyday ache which never goes away. 

It's the first Sunday of Advent. Let's go. I'm sending you a text: "look at the moon." 

And another one: "people don't keep covering 'Landslide' because they understand it. They cover it because they want to possess its beauty. Because, like the moon, it's not-so-hidden message is that everything glows. Including us, unless we insist on our inner Ohios"

Buen Camino kids.  

 
[ a rare actual photo of Ben Camino on a raft somewhere engulfed by a big freakin' moon]

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