New Moon Legend: Twilight of the Jiang Shi

Jiang Shi (simplified Chinese: 僵尸; traditional Chinese: 僵屍 or; pinyin: jiāngshī; literally "stiff corpse")　are reanimated corpses that hop around, killing living creatures to absorb life essence (气/氣qì) from their victims. Jiāngshī is pronounced gœngsi in Cantonese, or kyonshi in Japanese. They are said to be created when a person's soul (魄 pò) fails to leave the deceased's body, due to improper death, suicide, or just wanting to cause trouble.

Generally their appearance can range from plain ordinary (as in the case of a recently deceased person) to downright horrifying (i.e. rotting flesh, stiffness, rigor mortis, the like commonly associated with corpses that have been in a state of decay over a period of time). A peculiar feature is their greenish-white furry skin; one theory is this is derived from fungus or mold growing on corpses. They are said to have long white hair all over their heads. The influence of Western Christian vampire stories brought the blood-sucking aspect to the Chinese myth in modern times. The mentioned term 'stiff corpse' alludes to the large phallic erection it has when it is absorbing the soul of a virgin of the opposite sex.

A supposed source of the jiang shi stories came from the folk practice of "Traveling a Corpse over a Thousand Li" (千里行屍), where traveling companions or family members who could not afford wagons or had very little money would hire Taoist priests to transport corpses of their friends/family members who died far away from home over long distances by teaching them to hop on their own feet back to their hometown for proper burial. Taoist priests would transport the corpses only at night and would ring bells to notify other pedestrians of their presence because it was considered bad luck for a living person to set eyes upon a jiang shi. This practice (湘西趕屍) was popular in Xiangxi where many people left their hometown to work elsewhere. After they died, their corpses were transported back to their rural hometown using long bamboo rods, believing they would be homesick if buried somewhere unfamiliar. When the bamboo flexed up and down, the corpses appeared to be hopping in unison from a distance. Once it was a myth. Some people speculate that the stories about jiang shi was originally made up by smugglers who disguised their illegal activities as corpse transportation and wanted to scare off law enforcement officers.

They are sometimes called Chinese vampires by Westerners, despite the fact that unlike vampires, most jiang shi usually have no self-awareness, consciousness or independent thought.

Supposedly jiang shi can be put to sleep by putting a piece of yellow paper with a spell written on it on their foreheads (Chinese talisman or 符, pinyin: fú) and they can be evaded by holding one's breath, as they track living creatures by detecting their breathing. It is also the conventional wisdom of feng shui in Chinese architecture that a threshold (simplified Chinese: 门槛; traditional Chinese: 門檻; pinyin: ménkàn), a piece of wood approximately 15 cm (6 in) high, be installed along the width of the door at the bottom to prevent a jiang shi from entering the household. When uncooked grains or rice thrown in the path of a jiang shi, the jiang shi will stop and count the grains of rice. Sticky rice is believed to draw the evil spirit of the jiang shi out. Other items used to repel jiang shi include chicken's eggs (whereas duck's eggs are ineffective), and the blood of a black dog.

Do you believe?

TaiJi Quan & QiGong

Tai chi chuan (traditional Chinese: 太極拳; simplified Chinese: 太极拳; pinyin: tàijíquán; Wade-Giles: t'ai4 chi2 ch'üan2) is an internal Chinese martial art often practiced for health reasons. Tai chi is typically practiced for a variety of reasons: its soft martial techniques, demonstration competitions, health and longevity. Consequently, a multitude of training forms exist, both traditional and modern, which correspond to those aims. Some of tai chi chuan's training forms are well known to Westerners as the slow motion routines that groups of people practice together every morning in parks around the world, particularly in China.

The Mandarin term "t'ai chi ch'uan" literally translates as "supreme ultimate fist", "boundless fist," or "great extremes boxing" (note that 'chi' in this instance is an earlier romanization of modern 'ji', not to be confused with the use of 'chi' in the sense of 'life-force' or 'energy', which is an earlier romanization of modern 'qi'). The concept of the "supreme ultimate" appears in both Taoist and Confucian Chinese philosophy where it represents the fusion or mother of Yin and Yang into a single ultimate represented by the Taijitu symbol. Thus, tai chi theory and practice evolved in agreement with many of the principles of Chinese philosophy including both Taoism and Confucianism.

Many styles list in their history that tai chi was originally formulated by a Taoist monk called Zhang Sanfeng and taught by him in the Taoist monasteries at Wu Tang Shan.

When tracing tai chi chuan's formative influences to Taoist and Buddhist monasteries, there seems little more to go on than the legendary tales from a modern historical perspective, but tai chi chuan's practical connection to and dependence upon the theories of Sung dynasty Neo-Confucianism (a conscious synthesis of Taoist, Buddhist and Confucian traditions, especially the teachings of Mencius) is claimed by some traditional schools. The philosophical and political landscape of that time in Chinese history is fairly well documented. Tai chi's theories and practice are therefore believed by these schools to have been formulated by the Taoist monk Zhang Sanfeng in the 12th century, at about the same time that the principles of the Neo-Confucian school were making themselves felt in Chinese intellectual life.

In these legends, Zhang Sanfeng as a young man studied Tao Yin (導引, Pinyin dǎoyǐn) breathing exercises from his Taoist teachers and martial arts at the Buddhist Shaolin monastery, eventually combining the martial forms and breathing exercises to formulate the soft or internal principles we associate with tai chi chuan and related martial arts. Zhang Sanfeng is also sometimes attributed with the creation of the original 13 Movements of Tai Chi Chuan. These 13 movements are in all forms of tai chi chuan. Its subsequent fame attributed to his teaching, Wu Tang monastery was known thereafter as an important martial center for many centuries, its many styles of internal kung fu preserved and refined at various Taoist temples.

The philosophy of the style is that if one uses hardness to resist violent force, then both sides are certain to be injured at least to some degree. Such injury, according to tai chi theory, is a natural consequence of meeting brute force with brute force. Instead, students are taught not to directly fight or resist an incoming force, but to meet it in softness and follow its motion while remaining in physical contact until the incoming force of attack exhausts itself or can be safely redirected, meeting yang with yin. Done correctly, this yin/yang or yang/yin balance in combat, or in a broader philosophical sense, is a primary goal of tai chi chuan training. Lao Tzu provided the archetype for this in the Tao Te Ching when he wrote, "The soft and the pliable will defeat the hard and strong."

Along with Yoga, tai chi is one of the fastest growing fitness and health maintenance activities in the United States.

Before tai chi's introduction to Western students, the health benefits of tai chi chuan were largely explained through the lens of traditional Chinese medicine, which is based on a view of the body and healing mechanisms not always studied by modern science. Today, some prominent tai chi teachers have advocated subjecting tai chi to rigorous scientific studies to gain acceptance in the West. Researchers have found that long-term tai chi practice shows favorable effects on the promotion of balance control, flexibility, cardiovascular fitness and reduced the risk of falls in elderly patients. The studies also show some reduced pain, stress and anxiety in healthy subjects. Other studies have indicated improved cardiovascular and respiratory function in healthy subjects as well as those who had undergone coronary artery bypass surgery.

Tai chi and neijia in general play a large role in many wuxia novels, films, and television series; among which are Yuen Wo Ping's Tai Chi Master starring Jet Li, and the popular Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. A movie that features a traditional tai chi chuan teacher as the lead character is Pushing Hands, Ang Lee's first western film. It is also used as the basis for fictional "Waterbending" in Avatar the Last Airbender.In the video game Dead or Alive, Lei Fang uses Tai chi chuan. Internal concepts may even be the subject of parody, such as in Shaolin Soccer and Kung Fu Hustle. Fictional portrayals often refer to Zhang Sanfeng and the Taoist monasteries on Wudangshan.

Qigong, and its intimate relation to the Chinese martial arts and traditional Chinese medicine, are often associated with spirituality. This link is much stronger than with other techniques in traditional Chinese medicine. Qigong was historically practiced in Taoist and Buddhist monasteries as an aid to concentration as well as martial arts training, and the health benefits of martial qigong practice have recently been confirmed in western medical studies. In addition, the traditional teaching methods of most qigong schools (at least in Asia) descend from the strict teacher-disciple relationship conventions inherited in Chinese culture from Confucianism.

Qigong (or ch'i kung) refers to a wide variety of traditional cultivation practices that involve methods of accumulating, circulating, and working with Qi or energy within the body. Qigong is sometimes mistakenly said to always involve movement and/or regulated breathing; in fact, use of special methods of focusing on particular energy centers in and around the body are common in the higher level or evolved forms of Qigong. Qigong is practised for health maintenance purposes, as a therapeutic intervention, as a medical profession, a spiritual path and/or component of Chinese martial arts.

In some styles of qigong, it is taught that humanity and nature are inseparable, and any belief otherwise is held to be an artificial discrimination based on a limited, two-dimensional view of human life. According to this philosophy, access to higher energy states and the subsequent health benefits said to be provided by these higher states is possible through the principle of cultivating virtue (de or te 德, see Tao Te Ching, chapters 16, 19, 28, 32, 37, and 57). Cultivating virtue could be described as a process by which one comes to realize that one was never separated from the primal, undifferentiated state of being free of artificial discrimination that is the true nature of the universe. Progress toward this goal can be made with the aid of deep relaxation (meditation), and deep relaxation is facilitated by the practice of qigong.

The Ox Walk

In Japan, Buddhist monks do what's called the "Ox Walk" in busy city centres. They will walk deliberately slowly and ring a bell each time they take a step. If someone gives them alms, they will stop and recite a prayer for them, then continue their "Ox Walk". It's meant to be a reminder to the people to slow down and not rush, but live in the moment. Here's a video of a Tokyo monk Ox Walking in the CDB.

The Dharma of Rambo?

AFP reports that hundreds of Myanmar residents in Singapore gathered on Sunday for a screening of the new "Rambo" film starring Sylvester Stallone.

"The filmgoers, including Buddhist monks in saffron robes, watched largely in silence," according to AFP. "But the nearly full house erupted in loud cheers and applauded after the film's blood-spattered climax, when Rambo arrived to save the missionaries and slaughter the abusive troops."

I haven't seen the film myself, but I infer it does not emphasize the interconnectedness of all beings, including one's oppressors.

Elsewhere -- Adam Karlin writes a lovely essay about his travels to Myanmar (Burma) at World Hum. "The junta certainly likes to take advantage of Buddhist scripture for propaganda purposes," he writes. However, "Buddhism is a major component of Burmese identity, and its sense of right was in lockstep with those monks who risked—and lost—their lives protesting the junta."

The Buddha said, "If, like a broken gong, you silence yourself, you have approached Nibbana, for vindictiveness is no more in you" (Dhammapada 134). Yet compassion moved the Buddha to speak and teach. Our brothers and sisters in Myanmar have a terribly difficult path to walk, pulled between fear and compassion, mindfulness and anger. We might keep them in our thoughts as we stumble along our own path.

Yu GuanYin

Like America 150 years ago, today’s China has sophisticated modern cities in the east and an untamed wild west where everyone seems to have a gun. Goddess of Mercy bounces between these two worlds, taking its indefatigable heroine An Xin (Vicky Zhao) on a journey with enough action, drama, and leading men to fill three movies. It’s an operatic eyeful that has won much acclaim in Asia but appears on these shores without a theatrical release. DVD may have to suffice.

We first meet An Xin mopping up in the Beijing tae kwan do school where she works. Described as a “bumpkin” by the city slickers who practice there, she catches the eye of man-about-town Yang Rui (Yulong Liu), a young playboy who has a brand new Jeep, a Vuitton-obsessed girlfriend, and lots of cologne in his bathroom. It’s love at first sight for Yang Rui, but An Xin brushes him aside saying she’s not interested and hinting that she has many dark secrets. When he persists she even kicks him in the face, but she can’t shake him, and soon she’s succumbing to his charms as he swears off his gallivanting lifestyle.

The jealous girlfriend, however, has hired a detective to track Yang Rui, and when his relationship with An Xin is revealed, she trumps up a corporate extortion charge against him, and he’s off to jail in an instant.

To find out about An Xin’s secret past, a flashback transports us out west to a provincial town where we discover that she’s actually a cop involved in a Colombian jungle-style war again ultraviolent drug traffickers who challenge the police in frequent shootouts. She’s also engaged to newspaper reporter Tienjun (Jianbin Chen), who hates her career choice but can’t wait to marry her anyway.

But then comes leading man number three, Mao Jie (Nicholas Tse), who also falls in love with An Xin and sweeps her off her feet while Tienjun is out of town. He doesn’t know she’s a cop, and she doesn’t know his family is in charge of the local drug trade, but it all becomes clear when the two meet each other on a ferryboat during an undercover sting. Oops. He’s arrested, his family is killed, and revenge is on the agenda. But she’s pregnant. With his baby. Oops again.

From this point the film rushes back toward the present with enough death, destruction, and tears to fill the stage of the Metropolitan Opera for days. No one is spared, and it becomes kind of funny that An Xin’s boyfriends have told her she looks like the goddess of mercy figure she wears on a necklace. She’s more like the goddess of incredibly bad luck, at least for the men who fall in love with her.

At the center of this wild storm is Vicky Zhao, who American audiences have seen in Shaolin Soccer and 2003’s high-tech girl-on-girl chopsocky fest So Close. She appears in virtually every scene and holds the film together. She’s one part Michelle Rodriguez (the girl can kick!) and one part Julianne Moore. In fact, it would be hard to pick any one American actress who could play the part were the film ever remade here.

Overplotted though it may be, Goddess of Mercy (Yu GuanYin) pulls you in and sweeps you along, especially when An Xin’s impossibly cute toddler son is put in danger (and by his own father, no less). The film ends with images of Buddhist pilgrims chanting as they hike up the side of a Tibetan mountain. You kind of want to go along.

The story of An Xin's jade Guan Yin pendant and Guan Yin are a strong part of this movie. It will make you want to get such a pendant for yourself.

"The Banquet" of Love & Hate, Loyalty & Betrayal

Set in the period of the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms of the 10th century's China, "The Banquet" (Ye Yan) depicts the ever-familiar themes of love and hatred, loyalty and betrayal. Yes, ancient court politics, but nevertheless still so relevant, so long as we are all unenlightened, subject to similar defilements.

Even the rich and powerful, kings and such, are not free from politicking. In fact, they are probably subject to it on a more devastating scale, that eventually affects the masses they rule over, who have much more stakes to win or lose. With the storyline loosely adapted from Shakespeare's Hamlet, the film feels meditatively theatrical in feel, albeit much more magnificent.

Behind the outward grandeur and opulence lies elaborate deception. While feasting upon the sights and sounds of the lavishly lyrical "banquet", it struck me that seemingly every single movie we make or watch centres around the interplay of the three poisons (greed, hatred and delusion) and their antidotes (generosity, loving-kindness and wisdom).

This made me question why we love films. What is it that makes them so compelling to watch, even if they merely retell stories of old in new guises? Is it not simply because we can relate, because we too are poisoned to various extents by the three poisons? Is it not because we too are both the frequent victims and administrators of these poisons? Is it because we all seek the cure?

"The Banquet" is as disturbing as it is intriguing. Disturbing, because it tells of the treachery of the heart, and it is intriguing, because it is also understandable, worthy of empathy. "The Banquet" is also as insightful as it is delusional - as it sheds light on the subtle ignorance we are often subject to. Politics will always thrive, as long as the three poisons are present. A story is a tragedy when we see its protagonists fall victim to the poisons of themselves and others. A story has a happy ending when they triumph over the poisons. And what makes history's heroes great is their personal victory over their defilements, not others'. That said, to fellow Buddhists, the Buddha is surely the peerless hero, who had conquered himself, who had realised non-self for the good of all beings, who selflessly taught us how to realise the same.

As remarked by the Crown Prince (Wu Luan, played by Daniel Wu), the best actors act with emotionless masks on, while being able to convey emotions with their body language. The Empress (played by Zhang Ziyi) retorts that the best actors do not need to wear any masks; their faces are already masks. This signature dialogue marks the nature of "The Banquet", a black "celebration" of cunning lies and deceit. Who is the best actor? The one who who wears a mask, or whose face is a mask? The best actors do not need to mask themselves in any way; they do not even play-act; they "act" as themselves all the time. They are true to themselves and the world.

Despite being set in the macro world of great historical chaos, "The Banquet" is in essence the microcosm of deadly family politics. Seizing the opportunity of the Prince being disillusioned by the politicking ways of the world, who then retreats into a trance-like life lost in the arts of song and dance, the Emperor's brother (played by Ge You) usurps the throne by devious murder, and covets his late Emperor's wife. The secretly reluctant Empress, who is the Prince's stepmother of about the same age, quietly yearns for the Prince's love, while the grieving Prince, who craves for vengeance, fails to reciprocate the love of his fiancée, Qing Nu (played by Zhou Xun), the daughter of the Grand Minister (played by Ma JingWu).

While the Empress' compromise with the illegitimate Emperor frustrates the Prince, she is equally frustrated that the Prince does not understand her haplessness. The Emperor schemes to murder the Prince and vice versa, climaxing in the titular banquet, where the Prince stages a play to re-enact his father's murder - so as to disclose him. Unbeknownst to him, the Empress had planned to poison the Emperor during the banquet. By an unforseen twist, her toast of wine, spiked with poison, was patronisingly offered to the rebellious Qing Nu by the Emperor instead, who had staged a play to commemorate the Prince, whom she mistaken as murdered, during a journey to fulfil political exchange of hostages, as planned by the Emperor.

Reeling back in horrific disbelief of the Empress' betrayal despite his lavishing of love upon her, the Emperor disappointedly but willingly drinks the poison too, dying broken-hearted in her lap - in an act of desperate repentance. The tragic irony lies in the Emperor losing the love of his life and the Empress losing the person (the Emperor) who loves her truly. At the same time, she gave much anguish to the love of her life (the Prince), for indirectly causing the death of the love of his life (Qing Nu). As he grieves over her death, the Chief Minister's son attempts to stab the Empress to avenge his sister, but the Prince stops the poisoned blade with his hand in time, and dies, thus aggravating the Empress' regret. Simultaneously, the Empress had killed the Minister's son in self-defence. Convoluted politics at its deadliest worst!

Throughout the film, the audience is left ambivalent about the Empress's stance. Is she evil or good? Is she to be blamed or empathised with? Was she a victim of circumstances, or a victimiser who manipulated the circumstances? All of the above perhaps, to varying extents, as she changed from moment to moment. Initially, she had sought only to protect herself, but as the Emperor's suspicions of everyone increases, she decided that the best thing to do was to conspire with the Prince and Chief Minister's son to kill the tyrant Emperor, in the name of avenging the late Emperor, after which she would reign as "King".

Her motivations seemed mixed, probably not very much unlike most of ours, most of the time, as selfishness intertwines with selflessness. In the last scene, as she basks uneasily in her glory, she is struck by a flying knife, by an unseen and unidentified assassin. A final blow - the merciless karmic repercussion of her misgivings. The treacherous naturally attract treacherous enemies. It didn't matter who was it that killed her. She was ultimately her own victim, just like we create the causes of our own suffering too.

On different occasions, the Prince and Empress had sought the deadliest poison to assassinate the Emperor. They asked the seller if what he recommended was indeed the deadliest poison in the world, to which he replied that the human heart is even deadlier. True, since more poisonous than the deadliest poison is the heart or mind set to poison another. But like the Empress's fickle heart, the heart is in reality neutral, empty of any fixed characteristics - it can be for better or worse.

Even as the three poisons to fester in our hearts, we can also transmute them into the antidotes of generosity, loving-kindness and wisdom. Will you let your heart remain poisoned, or will you heal it? Every Shakespearean tragedy subtly asks this question. Do you have the answer yet? The real tragedy would be to miss the moral of the story, to not have the answer.

The Goddess Of Mercy Reviewed

The Goddess Of Mercy
Dir: Shin Sang Okk, Lim Won Sik
Released: March 21, 1967

Imagine being entirely ignorant of Moses and watching The Ten Commandments and you’ll have a rough idea of what watching The Goddess Of Mercy is like for non-Buddhists. Now take out all of the scenes where Moses acts like a jerk, and you’ll start to grasp how the film’s shallowness.

Made as a co-production with South Korea, "Goddess" tells the story of religious icon Kuan Yin, he bodhisattva of compassion, who, in her earthly form of Li Miao Shan, brought Buddhism to ancient China and ascended into heaven. Shaw Brothers knew that their Chinese (and, I assume, Korean) audiences would already know the story of Kuan Yin, so they replaced all of the exposition with spectacle.

The result is a movie that, by 1967 Shaw Brothers standards, is chock-a-block with special effects — magical bridges appear from nowhere, force fields protect besieged peasants, battles rage over wide-open plains. Filmed mostly in South Korea, Goddess takes advantage of the new scenery and delivers some nice outdoor visuals.

The downside to all these glamour shots is a painfully simplistic story that neglects to fill in the important details. For example, we never see Miao convert to Buddhism. In one scene she says she’s interested and later on she’s a committed follower.

Any film about religious struggle needs to live in the grey areas where faith falters; how else are human audiences going to sympathize with the characters? Goddess, however, banishes grey and only recognizes black and white. Miao and the other Buddhists are presented as unfailing saints while non-believers twist their Snidely Whiplash mustaches and cackle over slaughtered farmers.

The closest Goddess comes to critiquing Miao is in a odd dance number. After Miao and her dancers finish singing the praises of Buddhism, her militaristic father (Kim Song-ho) beats out a vicious martial tattoo while his soldiers dance and sing a pean to killing and murder. It’s an odd scene, but it has more life than the rest of the film.

While shooting in Korea, Shaw Brothers made the film twice. Once with longtime Chinese box office queen Li Li-Hua in the starring role, and a second time with a Korean actress taking the lead. Celestial has only released the Hong Kong version so far.