Friday, February 27, 2015

Buddhism in the American Civil War

Buddhism in the American Civil War
by
Bobby Derie

The American Civil War, from 1861 to 1865, marked one of the periodic uprisings in religious fervor in the United States. North and South, soldiers and politicians asserted their actions were in accordance with their beliefs; churches and congregations of many faiths supported the war on both sides. The bulk of Americans on both sides of the war were Christian, whether Baptist or Protestant, Methodist or Dunkard, Episcopalian or Catholic. Less well known, poorly recorded and unstudied, are the other faiths that contributed their rhetoric and divine fire to the conflict, Judaism and Islam, Voudoun and Spiritualism, the Church of Latter-Day Saints and the New Thought Movement, various Native American beliefs, and in a decided minority, Buddhism.

By 1860, the Asian population in the United States was approximately 35,000, the vast majority Chinese immigrants in California, with smaller colonies and individuals spread as far apart as the Manilamen of Lousiana and the Fijian colony in Massachusetts. These diverse immigrants brought with them their native religions, including various flavors of Buddhism - including forms of Esoteric Buddhism such as Mìzōng (密宗) 
or Vajrayāna among the Chinese immigrants, and Mahāyāna (particularly in the case of Chandraputra, who followed the Pratyekabuddhayāna), but Theravāda was the largest and most prevailing branch of Buddhism that took root in the United States. It was a faith without masters or major centers in the west, kept alive by lay practitioners and ethnic communities, cultural festivals and a few texts and sutras that had been brought over or memorized.

In the north, where Asian immigration was particularly sparse, the primary influence of Buddhism was felt through Western academia, the translation of Chinese and Sanskrit Buddhist texts into English and filtered through journals and university libraries. In 1844, the poet Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson published excerpts from the Lotus Sutra in their journal The Dial as "The Preaching of Buddha", the first experience many Americans had ever had to Buddhist thought:



This said, the respectable Kaçyapa spoke thus to Bhagavat: "If beings, arising from this union of three worlds, have different inclinations, is there for them a single annihilation, or two, or three?" Bhagavat said, "Annihilation, O Kaçyapa, results ftom the comprehension of the equality of all laws; there is only one, and not two or three. Therefore, O Kaçyapa, I will propose to thee a parable; for penetrating men know through parables the sense of what is said."

Among those westerners most influenced by Buddhism in the North, it may be surprising to find several luminaries who professed, at times, elements of Buddhist thought. Both generals Ulysses S. Grant and William Tecumsah Sherman, although Christian, are known to have discussed the Four Noble Truths, at least as filtered through the published writings of the German philosopher Arthur Schoepenhauer, with both men finding solace or inspiration in the knowledge that their actions, while they resulted in many deaths, were still the path to the least injury to others - as Sherman himself famously noted in his letter to Atlanta (1864):

You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it; and those who brought war into our country deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out. I know I had no hand in making this war, and I know I will make more sacrifices to-day than any of you to secure peace.
Buddhism in the Confederacy took a different form, finding little hold among the more celebrated officers, soldiers, and civilians, but finding occasional and surprising flower among the less-celebrated confederates. Crew members of the CSS Shenandoah, stationed in the Pacific to prey on the Union's whaling fleet, are famously said to have included three Buddhist members among the crew, who had converted while serving at Canton in China prior to the Second Opium War. According to an article in the The Union-Recorder, at least one of these men - William Stewart Caver - had looted certain Buddhist texts during the aftermath of the Battle of the Pearl River Forts and smuggled them back to the United States, but remained unverified until 1997, when strips of wood in the Macon Public Library were identified as part of a 200-year-old copy of the Bardo Thodol, popularly (if erroneously) known as the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

Among the civilians of the South, Buddhist influence was close to nil - except in one aspect. The concept of dharma was extolled by Manfield Peaks, the editor of a small Alabama anti-abolitionist newspaper, The Challenge, who cited the Indian caste system as a model, and felt that slaves should accept their role in life, and that the bulk of their suffering was caused by their bucking of the cosmic yoke. Peaks' writings on the "native state" of the slaves resonated among Southern writers even long after the war, as evidence by an inscription to Peaks on a copy of The Color Line: A Brief in Behalf of the Unborn (1905) by William Benjamin Smith, who argued against racial equality.

North and South, the exotic and foreign nature of the Asian religion gave way to certain cycles of local myth and folklore. Isaah Smith Washington claimed in later life to have seen a prayer-scroll fluttering in the breeze after the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain; Confederate commerce raiders found certain "queer Asian books" describing tantric practices in the wardroom of a Yankee merchant ship, whose pornographic illustrations were reportedly reproduced and sold quietly for decades in South Carolina; Ying Wung, the first Chinese student to graduate from Yale College, reportedly attempted to secure a commission in the Union forces but was denied because he refused to swear on a Bible; these and other fragmentary legends are almost all certainly distortions or fabrications; for example, there is no record of Ying Wung ever attempting to join the military in his memoir My Life in China and America (1909) or surviving Army records. But they show some of the influence that Buddhist culture had, and continues to have, on American imagination.

The most popular and enduring of these myth-cycles is the "Golden Buddha of San Francisco" - a local legend perpetuated by white Americans had it that the Chinese immigrants working on the Central Pacific Railroad had secretly transported from China, piece by piece, an enormous golden statue of the Buddha, purportedly worth over $2 million dollars. The story was given enough credence that when the secessionist volunteer militias arose in California, some groups apparently tried to locate the statue, raiding the homes of immigrants by night, and even local caves and played-out mines from the California Gold Rush. Union efforts quashed the California secessionists, but the rumors of the statue persisted such that many believed it had been moved to New Mexico - where it became the target of a fruitless two-month search by a band of the Knights of the Golden Circle. Eventually, legend had it that the wily Chinese had managed to smuggle the sacred statue up north, safely out of Confederate hands, and the search - and the harassment of the Chinese laborers by the rebel sympathizers - largely ceased. Still, even today some treasure-hunters believe that the Golden Buddha of San Francisco does exist.

Unfortunately, an effort has been made by some scholars to "read in" new interpretations of history - in particular, the vain efforts of some historians to associate the Church of Latter Day Saints and Joseph Smith in particular with the terma tradition of Tibet, or that John Wilkes Booth's assassination freed Abraham Lincoln from the cycle of rebirth - have no supporting evidence.


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Friday, February 20, 2015

Alms for A Ghoul

Alms for A Ghoul
by
Bobby Derie

The chair creaked, long and slow. Jack stood on the far side of the desk, felt sweat begin to bead on his face and neck as the AC shuddered and died. The shades were drawn, but red sundown shown through the slats, casting the office in strange shadows. A glint flashed off the badge on Jack's hip, and he had to fight instinct to let his hand dangle instead of rest on his gun. Behind the desk, the man in the chair's lips peeled back to show teeth.

"What brings you here, detective?"

Jack tossed a handful of photographs on the desk, watching them flutter lying autumn leaves. Some were crisp and fresh, almost wet from the bath; others were brown and yellow with age.

Grubby little fingers with too-long nails grasped at them, spread them out over the desk. The not-smile widened as he laid them out. Jack couldn't quite make out the pattern, but he knew it was a pattern. An upside-down Tree-of-Life, if you could mark the Qabbalah with altars of skulls and bones, decades and miles apart. Stars gave bloody-grins as they posed, or were caught unawares cutting through the meat on their plates.

"Oh, you have been busy." He clucked his tongue. The chair groaned as he bent over the disk, enraptured. "How much do you want for them?"

"Answers."

The chair stopped in mid-squeak. The man's nose twitched. Jack forced himself to look at it. The hang of the jowls, the almost punched-in look gave the balding man the countenance of an English bulldog. The nose twitched again.

"It's not what you think."

Jack tapped the newest photo - the crown. Meet and gristle hung off three femurs, arranged in a triangle, but not much. Scattered wet-naps were visible on the detritus. The femurs were tied together at the ends with little round bands, twisted together. You could just make out the logo for St. Vincent's.

"Organ donors." Jack said as he tapped out a little rhythm on the desk. The man in the chair shook himself, slammed a meaty fist on the table that made the photos jump. His eye caught a bottle blonde in a white dress, holding up a spoonful of stew...and what was in the spoon stared right back up at her.

"None of that!" He was shaking, and Jack leaned back away from the desk, to look down on him.

"There's always been those here with a taste for it. Some people just want to try it, others fall in to some of the old ways. We take them as they come, the money is always welcome. But never many, and no one could eat a whole one in a single setting. So...no point in any of it...going to waste." The chair squeaked, as the man settled himself back into it, steepling his pudgy fingers over his belly. "An occult charity, in every sense. Strictly quid pro se. You know how hungry they get, down there in the dark..."

"How hungry you get," Jack said. The teeth appeared again. "Were they dead first?"

"Their illness claimed them. In all cases, detective. We are...very traditional in that regard."

They looked at the photos again. An aging cowboy tossing a rib to something behind him. The composition was lousy, the light dark, but some things hunched and scrabbled in the background.

"How long?" Jack said, his voice barely a whisper. "How far back?"

"Give as alms what is inside, and then everything will be clean for you." The quote plucked at Jack's memory.

"Luke."

"A long time, detective." The chair screamed as he leaned forward again, shuffling the photographs together with pudgy fingers. "Longer than any of us know. Given in secret."

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Friday, February 13, 2015

Lay Me Among The Tombstones

Lay Me Among the Tombstones
by
Bobby Derie

Lay me among the tombstones, for I've a tale to tell, when all the salt-eyed mourners have left behind a part of their bereavement to be drawn, by slow gravity, down to hell. There they fuel the blazing hearts of the unquiet damned in their infernal dance, and I would whisper into those nether regions the burdens of my soul, that tattered and worn thing, as thin and threadbare as a pale shadow in the gloaming, for there is an audience that will never hurl any abuse at you, nor give back any criticism either harsh or well-meaning. The dead, the silent dead, can only take, and I have so few memories left to pour down to them as my libation.

Was it on the shores of that quiet lake, where I first met you; or was it in the alley behind the theater, rank and sweaty with you clawing at my back; was it in the lunch hall at school, when your leg brushed mine; or was it beneath that tree, where we pointed out where our erstwhile lovers had carved our names; was it flattened between the pages of the book you gave me, to fall fluttering out when I opened it another year; or was it in the dusty space, where your picture used to dwell. Well, nevermore. I'll drown in Lethe before I utter your name again, and if you seek me look no more than for a trail of bottles, which follow me like breadcrumbs down to hell.


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Friday, February 6, 2015

Fractal Fantasy

Fractal Fantasy
by
Bobby Derie



"And what shall you be?" the shadow said, striding through the darkened room, raising no dust in its wake.



"What I am," he said, "is an old man no-one has any use for, surrounded by books that nobody else wants to read. The prison I've built for myself title by title, page by page." He looked at the shadow.


"Talking to ghosts."



The shadow smiled. "The sharpest pencil dulls, even if you never use it." Paper rustled, in the dark.


"Get off your ass. There's work yet to be done."



So he betook himself once more to his labor, staring at the blank word document before him, and began to type.



*


"Look miss, we ain't got any wavy-bladed daggers." the hooded man said. His fellows had called him Brother John.



"No wavy-bladed daggers? Can't have a sacrifice without that now can you. Wouldn't be proper." The woman in said, as Brother Jack tied her wrists to the small plinth at the top of the altar stone.



"Well proper or not, it's not in the budget. Now this knife is sharp as anything, it'll do you a treat."


The both eyed the single-edged blade critically. It had a disturbing resemblance to an old cooking knife.



"A budget? What kind of death cult runs on a budget?" An edge of disbelief was overcoming the desperation in her voice.



"The kind that can't count on tithing." Brother John said, as Brother Jack made a grab for one of her legs, and received a solid kick for his troubles.



"Here, help me with this." Jack said, and John set the knife in his pocket for a minute as they each grabbed a leg. She gave a little shriek as they pulled her knees apart, and for a moment her dark skirts went billowing and revealed the mystery within.



"Blimey," John said after a moment. "I thought you was a miss, mister."



"I'm a woman in every way that counts!" she said, blushing hotly.



Jack and John looked at each other, each still holding a leg. It was like the ocean trying to listen to itself by putting up a seashell to either ear.



"Must be a virgin," Jack proffered. "The finding stone wouldn't be wrong about that."



"Must be," John admitted. "For at least a certain value thereof. But what if you-know-who doesn't care for the sacrifice?"



"Well now, I've never been entirely certain on what gender he-or-she-or-it is." Jack said. "I mean, we always bring girls, and it's happy enough with it and all, but there's those things...down there, y'know."



"Yeah, I know. We got the engraver in on the new edition of the unholy text last time. Practically an anatomy chart by itself down there. Had to give him a cold bath afterwards so he could concentrate on things."



Quietly, the young woman on the altar began to sob.



"This is just so..." she snivelled "...typical. You're just as sexist as all the other bastards. I can't help it if I was born with this thing between my legs. I mean, you try and you try and you do everything right and...and I have to go about every day just wearing a mask and pretending to be someone I'm not, and at night at least I can dress up and feel pretty and go out where no one knows me and just be myself, and now here I am and I'm not even good enough to be raped to death by whatever bastard demon or tentacle spawn you hooded ratfucks worship..." and then a hint of steel crept into her voice.
"Well fuck you, and fuck whatever-its-name-is too! I'm as good a sacrifice as any, and if I can't live as a woman, I can at least damn well die like one. Tie those fucking ropes on! I'll show that prick what a proper sacrifice is like!"



So saying, she offered no resistance as Brother John and Brother Jack finished tying her legs down, spread wide on the Y-shaped altar. They went about the rest of the preparations mechanically and mostly in silence, impressed by her stoicism and her small praises for the things she judged they did well.



As the chanting began, though, she still seemed bitterly disappointed that they didn't have a wavy-bladed dagger.



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