using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Lions Roar : Nov 2007
SHAMBHALA SUN NOVEMBER 2007 60 papers and pockets are checked, and the officer on duty looks me up on the computer to make sure I have a proper appointment. I pass through a metal detector and my wrist is stamped. Inside the fence, I walk up the hill to the prison itself, stopping halfway to take off my shoes again and go through a second metal detector. A fresh breeze comes across the water, and I see the view of the spires of San Francisco that Jarvis never sees. When I reach the prison wall, I wait beside a grated door called the sally port, until the guard inside notices me and opens the door electronically, which lets me into a little vestibule. I push my ID through a slot at the bottom of the window and tell the guard I have an appointment to visit Jarvis Masters. He opens the interior door into the visiting area. At first this whole process was frightening. Now I pretend to myself that I’ve gotten used to it, though it’s not something you can ever really get used to. I go down the hall in the non-contact visiting section, looking into each window as I walk by, until I see Jarvis, at last, sitting in a cell on the other side of the bulletproof glass. He smiles and we pick up the phones on either side of the window to talk. The barriers drop away. It’s like a mythical journey to see some wise teacher who waits at the inner core of a maze. But this teacher wears prison blues and sweat pours down his face in his hot cell. He mops his fore- head with a handkerchief. We talk about his life in prison. He tells me about ice. “When I fell on the exercise yard and twisted my wrist,” he says, “they brought me ice. At first I was angry. No X-ray? No Ace bandage? They just gave me ice and took me back to my cell. I hadn’t seen ice for years and years. I took a cube from the plastic bag and for some reason, I touched it to my forehead. Then to one side and to the other side of my face. I rubbed it around my eyes, really slow, and cold, trying to remember ice. What was it? This feeling? My hand touched the ice to the skin of my arm, all on its own. I lost my memory—no ice, nothing. That was a trip!” Jarvis was born in 1962, in Long Beach, California, one of sev- en children. Jarvis’s mother and stepfather were heroin addicts, and from the very beginning of his life, he experienced violence, SUSAN MOON recently retired as editor of Turning Wheel, the journal of socially engaged Buddhism, and is currently working on a collection of essays. The entrance to Condemned Row NOV 58-63.indd 60 NOV 58-63.indd 60 8/29/07 2:17:17 PM 8/29/07 2:17:17 PM