Buddhism for Vampires

Making a kangling for chöd

David Chapman — Sun, 06 May 2012 23:18:53 +0000

Historical photograph of a chöd yogi with a damaru (drum) and kangling

Abstract

A kangling is a trumpet made from a human thigh-bone. You play a kangling in tantric Buddhist rituals, particularly chöd.

The function of chöd is to cut your emotional attachment to your body. Putting a dead person’s leg bone to your mouth—to blow the kangling while practicing—is an intimate reminder of your own mortality.

Chöd is also a celebration of generosity and of your connections to people and other creatures in the web of life and death. Recognizing your place in the food chain is a part of that.

This page is an illustrated guide to making a kangling from scratch, or improving a poor-quality commercial one. High quality kanglings are now rare and expensive. Making your own is more affordable, and creates a stronger personal connection with the instrument.

I’ll also say a little more about chöd and the kangling’s rôle in it.

Dharmakirti (and Panini)

David Chapman — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 00:31:16 +0000

Dharmakirti is considered the definitive Buddhist epistemologist and logician. He was eaten by the cannibal hero of The Vetali’s Gift in “Eating an entire epistemologist.”

Almost nothing is known for certain about his life (or death). According to tradition, he was Chancellor of Nalanda University, and died around 700. The novel is set around 700, and Nalanda plays a major role—although as of the cannibalism incident, it has been mentioned only in passing.

The views I attributed to Dharmakirti in that episode are oversimplified. What the ogress says roughly reflects mainstream Buddhist philosophy, but does not reflect his distinctive ideas, which are complex and subtle. Interestingly, he was heavily influenced by Cārvāka. That is an Indian philosophy that was materialist, atheist, skeptical, and anti-ascetic. Fascinating—if it had not been suppressed by Church and State, perhaps the Enlightenment and Scientific Revolution would have occurred in India, rather than Europe, and a thousand years earlier.

The poems I quoted in “Eating an entire epistemologist” were, in fact, supposed to have been written by Dharmakirti. Whether that is true is anyone’s guess. In Buddhist history, questions of who wrote what are highly political, and often deliberately obfuscated. I would like to think he was the poet, because it makes him seem like a flesh-and-blood person, rather than a logical abstraction, as he is treated by Buddhist scholars.

Eating an entire epistemologist

David Chapman — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 23:10:37 +0000

Dharmakirti

“You should be grateful,” she said. “Hardly anyone gets to eat an entire epistemologist.”

“An epis-what?” I asked. Then I realized, too late, that she was side-tracking me.

“An epistemologist. He wanted to know how you can know things.”

“Like what?”

“Like anything.”

“Like what?”

“Well… How do you know that the Buddha was enlightened?”

“Everyone knows that!”

“How?”

“Are you saying the Buddha wasn’t enlightened? Because everyone knows that—even Brahmins say so.”

“Maybe I chose a bad example… Although he spent years working on that one… Do you know whether you are in a dream now?”

You, being meat

David Chapman — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 02:08:36 +0000

The “Four Thoughts That Turn the Mind to the Dharma” is one of the most tedious of Buddhist teachings.

Let’s see if we can kick it up a notch…

“Impermanence”—your own approaching death—is the second of the four.

Sooner or later, everybody is just someone else’s meat.
—Anita Blake

If you unexpectedly discover that you are minor character in an Anita Blake novel, you know that you are likely to be eaten alive by a zombie on page 237.

In our world, the likelihood of being eaten alive by a zombie is quite slim. However, the likelihood of your being eaten alive by a cancer is large—about one in four.

A cancer is essentially a zombie—a mass of human tissue that should be dead and isn't.

Who is the monster?

David Chapman — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 21:15:19 +0000

“Come along,” the ogress said, and started up the path. I followed, trying to keep up while she climbed the steep bank.

I was tired and hungry. It was dark. My knee hurt. She was going too fast.

I slipped and fell, landing with my foot twisted round.

There was a snap and horrendous pain.

I yelled.

The ogress reappeared immediately. I was sitting on my butt and holding my leg, howling.

“Does this hurt?” she said, poking my ankle.

“Yes!” I screamed. What did she expect?

“How about this?”

That hurt even worse. I tried to kick her away with the other leg; she batted it aside without looking.

“Broken,” she said. “It’ll be as big as your head tomorrow. And it’ll be a month before you can walk properly. You’ll have to stay with me.”

A final gift

David Chapman — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 20:06:37 +0000

Image courtesy juana manuel

She was some sort of ghoul or ogress. Sleeping in her cave was an obviously bad idea…

I woke the next morning with daylight streaming in through the cave mouth. Pulling aside the skin that hid the cave’s back room, I saw that the ogress had returned while I slept, and now lay on her bed of bones.

She knew the way to the vetali’s palace, and I needed to argue her into cooperation.

I coughed loudly to wake her, with no result. I clapped my hands and called out “Hello!”, but she seemed to be dead to the world. Evidently she had been out the whole night on some loathsome errand.

I was still quite sure that the palace must be somewhere nearby. I spent the day exploring the area, up and down the valley and hillsides.

Nothing.

My knee hurt. I limped back to the cave at dusk. Getting the ogress to tell me where to find the palace seemed the only way forward.

I had not eaten since the morning before, so I was now quite hungry, and not in a mood for nonsense. If I could not find the palace the next day, I would have to go back to the village at the foot of the mountains to get food.

She was waiting for me on the cliff-ledge at the cave mouth. “Come down to the river with me,” she said.

“What? Why?” I asked.

“Because I said so,” she said.

“Why should—” I began, but she was already heading down, faster than I could go. I followed her reluctantly.

The Secular Buddhist: Halloween podcast

David Chapman — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 15:50:44 +0000

Ted Meissner and I discussed Buddhism for Vampires a few days ago by Skype. He has posted a podcast recording on his site The Secular Buddhist.

Our conversation was a lot of fun and I think you’ll enjoy it. He’s a skilled interviewer, and probably more knowledgeable about the subject than I am! The audio format is completely new to me, so I might sound clueless, but he can make up for that.

The cave-ghoul

David Chapman — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 15:05:56 +0000

On the throne there was a girl, about my age. As I approached, she stepped down and came to greet me. “This is the vetali,” I thought.

My eyes opened. It was day. I was lying in the charnel ground, with a ferocious headache.

There was a ribcage an arm’s length from my nose.

The bonds that tied my limbs were gone. I sat up.

The clearing was less frightening in daylight, but more alien. The scattered body parts seemed incomprehensible, meaningless. It was quiet apart from the buzzing of flies.

My mother’s kartika-charm was gone. The dakinis must have taken it.

Visions in the charnel ground

David Chapman — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 00:34:20 +0000

“It shows things that were, and things that are, things that yet may be,” the dakini said.

I fell into the sky.

I hurtled, ever-faster, toward the stars. Screaming, tumbling, twisting, kicking: desperate to find something to hold onto.

Cold night air howled past, tearing at my face.

Then my wings caught the wind.

Tantra, sex, and romance novels

David Chapman — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 15:47:45 +0000

The Vetali’s Gift is a novel of Tantric Buddhism. It has some sex in it. Since there are many strong, confusing opinions about the role of sex in Tantra, I think I had better say something.

For more than a thousand years, most people have considered Tantra, and Buddhist sexual practice, too hot to handle. To try to neutralize their scary energy, both opponents and advocates of Tantra have deliberately confused the subject. Several opposing camps explain loudly and confidently what Tantra “really means,” and what that implies about “Tantric sex.” Each claims Tantra really means what would be convenient for them. No doubt they are all well-intentioned, but much of what they say is absurd.

I won’t explain what Tantra “really means,” because it has meant quite different things to different people in different places and times. Tantra, and the role of sex in Buddhism, are vast topics about which many books have been written. All I can do here is straighten out some basic confusions.

I fall into the sky

David Chapman — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 22:14:35 +0000

The dakini girl took the knife, and pulled my shirt open to bare my neck. I looked down as my mother’s kartika-charm was exposed. The strange letters on it writhed in the starlight. “Ooooh!” she said, and jumped to her feet.

The middle dakini stepped forward to look. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.

“It was my mother’s—she was a dakini.”

I go to the dakinis

David Chapman — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 04:06:42 +0000

Dakini script calligraphy, by Ngakpa Chögyam

I left on the afternoon before the night of the empty moon. In the stories, dakinis met then, to perform their dark magic.

The Quest of Life and Death

David Chapman — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 22:40:45 +0000

After I had seen hell, I would do anything at all to avoid it.

The rat

David Chapman — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 08:00:00 +0000

“Demons,” said my younger foster-brother.

That was the general opinion, when news reached our village that everyone in Sukhi’s village had died in a night and a day, in explosions of blood.

My foster-mother had more to say, though.

“A just punishment. It was their karma, naturally. Engaging the daughter of a brahmin to the son of a dakini went against every point of Dharma. The brahmins’ Dharma is not the same as Lord Buddha’s, but everyone knows mixing the pure and impure is an abomination. That whole village was guilty. They all stood by and allowed it, seduced by that sorcerer uncle of yours.

“It was a judgement from Yama, Lord of Death; he sent his minions to take them to hell.”

Her life tottered on a knife edge. I am still surprised I did not murder her in that instant.

Comment posting problem

David Chapman — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 15:47:00 +0000

A kind person let me know recently that it had been impossible to post comments on the last month's worth of pages on this site. I believe I have fixed the technical problem, but I still don't really understand it.

If this happens again, could you let me know via the contact page?

Thank you very much indeed, and sorry for the missed opportunities to post comments.

Love and death

David Chapman — Sat, 28 May 2011 08:01:00 +0000

“Marrying a village girl is out of the question,” my uncle said. “What matters now is your training with the dakinis.”

Two days later, my uncle had arranged my marriage to Sukhi.

He returned from her village in good humor. I had persuaded him to negotiate the match only by shouting, wailing, sobbing, cajoling, begging, promising, and threatening to kill myself. (I think I meant the last.)

So when he came back grinning, I suspected he was glad to have failed—or to have only pretended to make the attempt.

He was, instead, pleased with himself to have accomplished the impossible: the betrothal of a brahmin’s daughter to an outcaste Buddhist. The first day, he had visited the village’s astrologer, who was also its chief religious authority. The two passed several pleasant hours talking shop about planetary exaltations and lunar mansions. At some point, my uncle let slip that his royal employment was rather remarkably remunerative; and finally brought the conversation circuitously round to his true agenda.

“It is often surprising,” my uncle told me, “how agreeable the gods may be to exceptions in sacred law, when gold is brought into proximity with a priest. A fact usually better not mentioned.”

How disgusting should I be?

David Chapman — Sat, 28 May 2011 08:00:00 +0000

What is your threshold of horror? When does “entertainingly creepy” cross the line into “sick”?

You need to learn tantra

David Chapman — Sat, 21 May 2011 02:46:00 +0000

Help from my uncle was my only hope for winning the hand of my beloved Suhki—but he only wanted to talk about sorcery, spies, wars, and witches.

Kila (phurba)

Each time my uncle arrived in our village, everything changed for the duration.

He immediately took command, and everyone deferred to him. Even the village headman, the brahmin; although my uncle always addressed him courteously. This seemed the natural order of things when I was a child; it was only when I lost Sukhi that I started to wonder about it.

My uncle’s dress was outlandish. He wore silk trousers, one leg blood-red and one black, belted with an emerald sash. His pointed boots, embroidered with peculiar symbols, were in the style of the northern barbarians, the horse lords. He kept a coil of matted hair mounded beneath a broad-brimmed black hat. Its high peak had staring blood-shot eyes embroidered on it. He wore hoop earrings, as big as my palm, made from the crowns of human skulls. His massive chest was bare apart from a broad leather strap that ran diagonally from shoulder to waist.

A series of pouches attached to that harness. As a child, I begged to see what was in them. He was reluctant at first, but eventually I won him over.

Dakinis

David Chapman — Wed, 18 May 2011 01:58:39 +0000

Dakinis were fearsome witches who ate human flesh. They were also the enlightened goddesses who made tantric Buddhism available to humankind.

“Where did Buddhist Tantra come from?” is a question that fascinates me. Understanding the origins of a cultural system often helps make sense what it has become, even after centuries of transformation.

According to some scriptures, tantra was given to Buddhists by dakinis. That is a strangely ambiguous word. Dakinis may be supernatural or human. They can be terrifying or alluring; malignant or helpful; Buddhist or not. The one thing that is clear is that they are female. “Witch” is probably the best translation, since it covers many of the same ambiguities. “Dakini” is now often used vaguely to refer to any female spirit, and also to any female tantrika.

Western scholars have a guess about the original dakinis, based on early tantric texts, history, and anthropology. (See for instance Kiss of the Yogini and The Origins of Yoga and Tantra.)

Historians’ guesses, right or wrong, are irrelevant to the religious significance of dakinis. History cannot tell us “what dakinis really are.” The reality of dakinis, for any particular tantric system, is defined by their function within that system.

However, I have loosely based the fictional dakinis in The Vetali’s Gift on the historical theory, because I find parts of it emotionally compelling.

Dragonflies

David Chapman — Sat, 14 May 2011 01:00:00 +0000

Sukhi stretched her legs out so her toes dangled in the river water.

“Why were you not moving when I saw you?” I asked. I wanted her nose to wiggle again.

“It’s why I come to the river,” she said. “That and the dragonflies.”

Sukhi

David Chapman — Fri, 06 May 2011 02:56:42 +0000

It was Sukhi who saved my life in my fourteenth year. Not by doing anything heroic, but just by being Sukhi.

That year, my life went from merely awful to utterly impossible. I was bored senseless. Living even another year with my hateful foster-family was an unbearable prospect.

And after that, what? I certainly was not going to become a monk. So I would be a farmer, and live and die in a village in which a still-born calf was conversation for weeks; in which nothing more significant than that had happened since I was born; in which nothing would happen unless it were some new catastrophe; in which everything and everyone was loathsomely familiar.

And I was full of vast new, inchoate desires; desires that had no known direction, no possibility of consummation; desires I could not name or understand. Desires for what, I mostly had no idea. It was sex, of course, but I understood that only dimly; and it was not only sex.

The one thing I knew was that I had to get away. Life was a living hell. I thought daily about killing myself to escape; but that sends you straight to the Cold Hell. Living hell or dead hell; the hot hell of rage and desire, or the freezing hopeless hell underground? If I didn’t kill myself, I was going to kill someone else—and it was going to be my foster-mother or her younger son.

Lord Buddha

David Chapman — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 01:46:47 +0000

After my mother was murdered, my uncle arranged for me to be reared by one of the village women. She was a Buddhist, and her husband had died valiantly in the same battle that killed my father.

My foster-mother did not love me. I think now that she feared me, for her own sake, and on behalf of her own two sons.

Perhaps she was right. For my part, I hated her, and I hated them.

My foster-mother was obsessed with purity. Whatever I did, it was impure, and she would punish me for it. It was an offense against Lord Buddha, she said. It was bad karma, and would send me to hell.

Buddhism for Wolves

David Chapman — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 02:27:46 +0000

The name of this site was inspired by Buddhism for Wolves, which is a comic book by Christopher Pennock. Chris is one of my “vajra brothers”—he is a fellow student in the Aro lineage.

Christopher Pennock is better known as a stage, film, and television actor. You may know him for his roles in Dark Shadows, the cult horror-soap television series.

Dark Shadows’ Barnabas Collins was perhaps the first vampire ever portrayed sympathetically, as a character one could identify with, or be romantically attracted to—rather than a purely evil, alien other. This theme is the basis of most subsequent vampire fiction, so Dark Shadows is of great historical significance. (Besides being a lot of fun.)

Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

David Chapman — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 19:08:10 +0000

Bodhipaksa is leading a Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse event at the San Francisco Buddhist Center, Halloween 2010.

Follow me on Twitter

David Chapman — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 17:31:04 +0000

As @Meaningness, I post one tweet about each new page I write, on any of my sites. For Twitter users, this could be the easiest way to get updates across all my sites. (Alternatively, you could subscribe to each one separately by email or RSS.)

I also occasionally post updates about the progress of my writing, and pass along a few links and retweets that seem relevant to readers—about Buddhism, philosophy, and vampires.

Pops and the shudder

David Chapman — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 00:38:49 +0000

The most interesting part of “The tale the vampire told” is the final dialog between the narrator and his listener, the young monk. It relates this part of the book to Will Buckingham’s Finding Our Sea-Legs, a remarkable book of Buddhish ethics.

If you have already read “The tale the vampire told,” you might want to go back and re-read those last few paragraphs. If you have not read the episode at all, I suggest you do so now—because what is coming up will spoil a surprise.

Stories within stories

David Chapman — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 03:13:10 +0000

In “25 vampire stories,” the narrator gives several reasons story-tellers may nest one story within another. These are, in fact, the reasons I wrote “The tale the vampire told” as a story within a story within a story within the novel.

The sea of stories

David Chapman — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 03:07:35 +0000

Many authors have taken up the metaphor of a “sea of stories”—which grew out of the Twenty-Five Vampire Tales. Perhaps the best-known recent example is Salman Rushdie, in his Haroun and the Sea of Stories:

So Iff the water genie told Haroun about the Ocean of the Stream of Stories, and even though he was full of a sense of hopelessness and failure the magic of the Ocean began to have an effect on Haroun. He looked into the water and saw that it was made up of a thousand thousand thousand and one different currents, each one a different colour, weaving in and out of one another like a liquid tapestry of breathtaking complexity; and Iff explained that these were the Streams of Story, that each coloured strand represented and contained a single tale. Different parts of the Ocean contained different sorts of stories, and as all the stories that had ever been told and many that were still in the process of being invented could be found here, the Ocean of the Streams of Story was in fact the biggest library in the universe. And because the stories were held here in fluid form, they retained the ability to change, to become new versions of themselves, to join up with other stories and so become yet other stories; so that unlike a library of books, the Ocean of the Streams of Story was much more than a storeroom of yarns. It was not dead, but alive.

Stories of the vampire, stories of the sea

David Chapman — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 02:45:28 +0000

This metablog post, and the next few, concern the episodes “25 vampire stories” and “The tale the vampire told” of The Vetali’s Gift. These chapters are tributes to the very first vampire literature, to the oral tradition of story-telling, and especially to Will Buckingham’s remarkable book of Buddhish ethics, Finding Our Sea-Legs.

The original Twenty-five Tales of the Vampire—called Vetala Panchavimshati in Sanskrit—is the oldest known vampire story. It is also the oldest known use of the trick of telling one story within another. It exists in countless versions, both Hindu and Buddhist. How old no one knows, but it was probably already ancient in Surya’s time, 1300 years ago. Yet it is still told today in India and Tibet.

The tale the vampire told

David Chapman — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 09:32:08 +0000

“ ‘One day when they were of age, the two remaining brothers determined to set out on a Quest, to seek their fortune in the wide world. For they were brave and handsome and clever—or at least the older brother was—and their village seemed too small for them. Their father pleaded with them not to go, for there are many dangers in the wide world, and he counted on their work for the farm. But try as he would, he could not dissuade them.

“ ‘Finally, he gave their Quest his blessing. “Never forget,” he said, “that you are Buddhists. Always pray to the gods. And especially in times of great peril; that is a Test of your devotion. If you are pure of heart, your prayers will be answered.”

25 vampire stories

David Chapman — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 12:10:13 +0000

Illustration of the vetala from the 25 Tales of the Vampire

“Tell me a story,” I demanded.

It was the first evening of one of my uncle’s rare visits, after my mother was killed.

“It’s late, Surya,” he said. “I have come a long way today, and I am tired.”

“Um—with respect—why are you telling me about all this?” asked the young monk. “I thought you were supposed to teach me the Secret of Life and Death, or something.”

“I am,” said the old man. “But the story my uncle told is personally meaningful for me. Please don’t interrupt!”

Love in a time of war

David Chapman — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 12:09:21 +0000

Map of Gupta Empire and trade routes courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Buddhist Inner Tantra emerged in a time of social collapse, political chaos, and forced change.

The Vetali’s Gift is set in north-eastern India, around the year 700 C.E. It is a love story—but one set against a backdrop of horrific civil war. This was a Dark Age for India, coming just after its greatest Golden Age. This seems also to have been the place and time that Inner Tantra—which later became the high point of Tibetan Buddhism—emerged.

According to both the Tantric scriptures and Western academic histories, that is not a coincidence. It was a religion suited for its time. Our own time is one of rapid social change also, in which Sutric (“mainstream”) Buddhism may not survive. In some ways, Tantric Buddhism seems better suited for our time—as well as for Surya’s.

History can be dry; but you might like to know something about why Surya’s life is torn by war, and to understand something about the social forces that made Tantra effective at that time.

My mother dies

David Chapman — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 12:07:49 +0000

Kartika charm (on a chöd drum tail)

“Mother, what is a dakini?”

She looked troubled. “Why do you want to know, dear?”

“They said—they said—they called me a ‘dakini child.’ ”

I was close to tears. “They said—they said you were a dakini, and dakinis eat people. And dakinis are what make people sick. They said everyone knows you are a dakini because you have black skin and talk funny.” It was true that my mother spoke with an accent, and her grammar was a bit off. I was just old enough to have noticed that. And even my own skin was darker than most of the villagers. “Is it true? Are you a dakini?”

Buddhists who kill

David Chapman — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 11:45:50 +0000

Vajra battle-axe

“Refraining from killing” is one of the five Buddhist Precepts—the foundation of Buddhist ethics. There seem to be no exceptions allowed in early Buddhist texts.1 But why should we not kill? And what about in self-defense? What about in defense of others? What if there is no alternative?

In fact, there is no alternative, since the Precept applies to killing animals. All Buddhists kill. You cannot walk around without unintentionally squashing tiny bugs. Even if you are vegetarian, you eat microscopic creatures that live on plants. If you committed suicide to prevent this harm, you would kill the many intriguing, unnoticed creatures that inhabit your body.

Let’s up the ante. Why is murder wrong? Many Buddhists will tell you that it is bad karma. Murderers go to one of the nastier Buddhist hells. From an ethical point of view, this answer is nonsense. Ethics is about doing the right thing when it is costly to you. If murder were right, we should do it even if it sent us to hell. And murder would still be wrong even if it were good karma, and sent you straight to heaven.

Buddhist philosophers mostly say that what matters is intention, not consequences. Killing is not inherently wrong; what is wrong is the intention to harm. So, some Buddhist philosophers say that killing people is a good thing in some circumstances. Using violence to defend others—like the narrator’s father in The Vetali’s Gift—might be justified. It might be ethical for a Buddhist to be a soldier. This is highly controversial, however.

1. Buddhism seems to have become more and more willing to admit exceptions as time passed. Mahayana tends to accept the need for killing to prevent worse outcomes; and as we shall see, this is a major theme in Vajrayana. In Mahayana, the standard authority is a passage in the Upaya-kaushalya Sutra about a previous incarnation of the Buddha who was a sea-captain. He had a ship full of passengers, one of whom planned to sink the boat, killing all on board. The Buddha hacked this misguided individual to death with an axe, thereby saving 500 lives. The Sutra’s analysis of this event is somewhat confused, but the general sense is that this was the right thing to do.

My father dies

David Chapman — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 13:33:20 +0000

“We are starting at the beginning, aren’t we?” said the old man.

My father was a Tantrika—a Buddhist sorcerer. I never knew him. He died before I was born. He died defending our village… I was proud of that.

On that day, a girl ran into the village, exhausted, sobbing and incoherent. It seemed that her own village, a few miles to our west, had just been attacked and destroyed by the army of a rising warlord from Kannauj. They were marching east.

Our village sent a runner to the nearest garrison town to beg for help; the women and children prepared to flee, and the men—some of them—to fight to cover their escape.

The soldiers arrived minutes later. Our men were untrained, unready, and armed only with kitchen knives and farming tools. The slaughter began—but my father, sitting alone in the common space at the center of the village, singing black words, nearly turned the tide.

He turned the soldiers’ own bodies against them.

Next time you die

David Chapman — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 09:24:30 +0000

About death, the one thing to know is: “Next time you die—pay attention!”

That sounds ridiculous when the aged, possibly insane narrator of The Vetali’s Gift says it. This is supposed to be the death part of the great Secret of Life and Death? It’s absurdly simple, and what has it got to do with anything? Either he’s gone senile, or it’s a joke.

Whose joke? His or mine? Or hers? Not everything is as it seems… Maybe the joke is on you?

“Next time you die, pay attention” is the essence of the The Tibetan Book of the Dead. And it might be good advice even if you don’t believe in rebirth, and expect to die only once.

Buddhism, fictional and historical

David Chapman — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 09:15:26 +0000

The “Buddhism” in this book was never anyone’s religion. Still, it may have entertainment value—or even educational value.

The telling of the tale

David Chapman — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 12:57:04 +0000

The young monk found his way up to the cave, a day’s walk from Nalanda University. He stopped at the entrance—curious, and apprehensive. He pulled aside the blanket covering the opening, and called out “Sir?”

Hello! Dear boy! Please do come in. It is so nice to meet you at last… Yes, of course I know you. You are a young man with a most unusual and valuable talent. Valuable to me, anyway, when you accompanied me on my Final Quest. What? Oh, yes, I am sorry, that Quest hasn’t happened yet. We’ve only just met, haven’t we? Time is so confusing.

Do sit down. Make yourself comfortable. You will be here some while. Oh! It is so kind of you to bring me these. Would you like one yourself? No? I’m sorry, I know most people think they are horrifying; I should not have offered you one. I do adore them; I hope you don’t mind if I eat one now?

So. Your teacher, the Chancellor of Nalanda, has sent you here, yes? To learn about the Matter of Life and Death. But what you would really like to hear is about your teacher. You would like to hear how, when he and I were young, we saved Nalanda, and Buddhism, and the world. How we travelled into the realms of the dead and defeated the Dark Lord and all his armies. You have heard a little of that story, haven’t you? And you don’t know whether to believe it. The Chancellor will not speak of it. There is much he did on that Quest that most monks should not learn about, lest they get ideas…

So you hope to hear the story from me. Yet you have heard that I’m a dazed old man, who can’t remember which century he’s living in. Still, whether true history or an old man’s dream, you’d find it a good tale—and you’d learn much about your Chancellor. More than he’d like his students to know.

The fine print

David Chapman — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 12:29:35 +0000

Disclaimers

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons living, dead, or in-between is probably intentional, but not to be taken seriously.

This novel is for entertainment purposes only. Obviously you should not assume that anything on a web site with a name like “Buddhism for Vampires” is religiously or historically accurate.

Do not try this at home. The stunts in this story were performed by highly-trained Buddhist professionals, under carefully controlled conditions. Attempts to imitate them may result in injury or undeath.

Eating the shadow

David Chapman — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 13:48:31 +0000

“Haunted,” by Penny Mathews

So—we are all monsters. Then what?

I’ve suggested that there are three ways of relating to one’s own monstrosity: rejection, inversion, and incorporation. This page is mainly about incorporation. That is the approach of embracing monstrosity, transforming it, and putting it to use.

There are Buddhist methods for incorporating monstrosity. Most explicitly, in wrathful yidam practice you leap directly into being an enlightened monster. This is sudden, violent, dangerous, and practical for almost no one. Dzogchen trek-chöd separates monstrous emotional experiences from polarized concepts of humanity and monstrosity. Experiencing monstrosity without judgment is a necessary part of incorporating it. Trek-chöd may be gentler than wrathful practice, but is still arduous, and impractical for many people.

I will describe other methods that can be used by anyone. They are not easy or entirely safe, but they require no esoteric practices. These are not specifically Buddhist, but they seem compatible with the Dzogchen Buddhist view. They may seem quite contrary to “mainstream” (Sutric) Buddhism—but that should not be a problem.

On monsters

David Chapman — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 11:14:34 +0000

After I had been working on Buddhism for Vampires for several months, I discovered that a Buddhist academic philosopher, Stephen T. Asma, had just released a book On Monsters for a popular audience. That was a pleasant surprise.

We are all monsters

David Chapman — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 19:17:33 +0000

We are not monsters / we are moral people

All humans are monsters.

That is not a good thing or a bad thing.

The No Die List

David Chapman — Thu, 27 May 2010 07:10:57 +0000

According to folk Buddhism, karma is enforced by an incompetent police-state bureaucracy.

I’ve just finished reading Bryan Cuevas’ Travels in the Netherworld, a book about deloks. A delok is a Tibetan who has died, gone to hell, and returned to life, a few days later, in the same body. (Or so goes the story.)

Disgust as Buddhist practice

David Chapman — Thu, 13 May 2010 15:57:32 +0000

Wrathful offering, from the Aro Dorje Phurba thangka

“It tastes like an embalmed corpse,” announced Ngakpa Trögyal, uncorking the bottle.

Ngakpa Trögyal is a specialist in the wrathful practice of Dorje Phurba—and also a hospital emergency doctor. The bottle was Ardbeg 10-Year—a Scotch whiskey I had never heard of.

He poured some for each of us. “Take a swig and hold it at least sixty seconds before swallowing. Its taste will change several times in your mouth. At first there is a rotten taste, like a decomposing corpse. After it passes, there is the strong chemical taste, like the stuff they use to clean hospital floors. That’s the embalming fluid…”

Ardbeg is delicious and disgusting at the same time. Accepting that life often seems like that takes you some interesting places.

About the metablog

David Chapman — Sat, 08 May 2010 17:49:46 +0000

This “metablog” is a blog about Buddhism for Vampires.

About “Buddhism for Vampires”

David Chapman — Tue, 04 May 2010 22:36:05 +0000

“Buddhism for vampires? That’s silly. Buddhism and vampires don’t have anything to do with each other—do they?”

Surprisingly, vampires have played a significant role in Buddhism, in Asia, for centuries. They are not a Western invention.

The Tibetan Book of the Undead

David Chapman — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 02:51:44 +0000

Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)

Vetalas: what you need to know

The Sanskrit word vetala is often translated “vampire” or “zombie,” but neither is perfectly accurate. Strictly, a vetala is an immaterial spirit that enters a corpse and animates it. The undead walking corpse is then also called a vetala; and this is the common meaning of the word.

There are “wild” and “created” vetalas. Bodiless vetala spirits hang around charnel grounds, hoping to find suitable corpses to inhabit. If a body is dumped without proper precautionary rituals, it is vulnerable. These “wild” vetalas prey on the living. The translation “vampire” is most appropriate for wild vetalas. Like Western vampires, they can fly in the form of huge bats. Like Western vampires, they may have courtly manners, and uncanny insight into human motivation.

A Buddhist necromancer can raise the dead by magically binding a disembodied spirit and forcing it into a vacant corpse. It is thereby subordinated to the necromancer’s will, and serves as a slave. For such “created” vetalas, the translation “zombie” is more accurate. In fact, the term “zombie” originally designates a strikingly similar practice in Haitian voodoo.

Vetalas were hugely important in the practice of early Buddhist Tantra in India. The Tantric scriptures contain extensive descriptions of the rites needed to raise vetalas, and the purposes to which they can be put. Slaves are useful; a supernatural slave is especially useful, particularly when you need to accomplish supernatural tasks. On the other hand, raising a vetala is always dangerous: if it escapes your control, it will kill you, and probably many other people, until someone more competent subdues it.