Posted on by Jason E-W

Escapism

I have tried to curb my bouts of escapism as my understanding of it and its detrimental effects has matured. And that’s probably a good thing, but as with correcting any problem, the first step—even before admission—is realizing you have the problem.

June 4, 2000, wasn’t my first foray into escapism, nor my last; it wasn’t a revelatory experience. It was, in essence, just a game.

Sports fandom is very low on my list of escapist tendencies (as in, not very problematic). It may not be the most productive pastime, but it is a pastime nonetheless. For me, at the tender and oblivious age of 14, Game 7 of Lakers–Trailblazers had become so important, and the game was going so poorly, that watching basketball on TV became the thing I was trying to escape, instead of acting as the thing to escape to.

I was never any good at basketball, but I had developed a habit of playing (alone) before or after Laker games. So at halftime, with the Lakers losing 39–42 at home with a chance at the Finals on the line, I shot some hoops, trying to vicariously inspire an insipid Kobe & co. to liven things up in the second half.

Alas, I returned to the living room, ball in hand, only to witness an even more lackluster performance. I can’t remember the details now (the box score shows the Lakers being outscored by another 10 points in the quarter), I just remember needing to escape; feeling, against all reason, that if I didn’t see it happen it wouldn’t mean as much.

So I fled back to my makeshift court, about 100 miles away from Stapes Center but still not far enough. Idly and passively watching had become too painful, so I sought solace in the methodical, thought-consuming rhythms of dribbling and shooting on my own. All the while unable to shake the utterly unimportant while at the same time all-consuming event playing out on my TV.

So I kept checking in, against my better judgement. My escapism sprung leaks, eventually sinking into the gravitas of the moment. And it was saddening, watching it unfold. Then Brian Shaw, a rare professional sports product of nearby UCSB and thus a local favorite, started hitting threes. The math became more and more logical, all leading up to that alley-oop—from the team’s most ardent realist to its philosophizing jokester escapist.

According to the statistics, Kobe had 25 points in 47 minutes on 9-of-19 shooting, going to the line a whopping 12 times. He had 11 rebounds, 7 assists, 4 blocks. In other words, he was a workhorse, refusing to go down without a fight. Even the box score knows he was always present, undoubtedly oblivious to the outside world for the entirety of the game. You can imagine him stone-faced in the locker room at halftime, a mind impenetrable even to Phil Jackson’s prodding.

Shaq threw down that foundation-shaking alley-oop. It felt like the moment in the actual moment, and history has proved that to be correct. His eyes widened in excitement bordering on disbelief as he ran back down the court, pointing and shouting all the while. But that was one of only five field goals he made on the day. He finished the game with 18 points, shooing 5-of-9 from the field and 8-of-12 from the line. He only had nine total rebounds against Rasheed Wallace and Arvydas Sabonis, adding five (impressive) assists and a block. But the efficiency of his stat line belies his 47 minutes of playing time.

Bryant was and is often criticized for his inefficiency, for trying too hard, for being a combative individual in a team game. But what he is, what he was in this game, in the most important basketball moment of his still young career, is present. His body was everywhere, but his brain never wandered, tethered to the confines of the 50-by-94-foot hardwood. He shot poorly from the line, poorly from deep, he had a couple turnovers. But he led the way, his hustle and embrace of the moment belying his 21 years.

The Lakers had been good for Kobe’s previous three seasons, making the Western Conference Finals in the two preceding seasons and the second round in Bryant’s rookie campaign. But they had gone 1–12 in those three season-ending series, stealing a game off the Jazz in the ’97 semifinals and then being swept in both Conference Finals appearances (Jazz in ’98, eventual champion Spurs in ’99).

So while they may have been used to the stage, they were also used to losing on said stage—they had repeatedly looked the end of their season in the eye…and succumbed to the moment. They had Jackson and his six rings calling the plays, and Ron Harper and his three rings steadying the backcourt. They had Big Game Robert Horry, but he was still more man than myth. While Harper was the opposite: 36 years old, more presence than physical ability. And Scottie Pippen was on the other side of the floor with a group that looks even more impressive in hindsight.

In short, it would have been easy and understandable to want to just get out of there. Down 16, past playoff demons bubbling up, a home crowd that hadn’t been satisfied for over a decade. In the third quarter, the game became difficult to watch, that choking feeling of inevitability crept up from the stomach to the throat, threatening to drown the helpless viewer. It surely affected some of the players.

But Kobe kept chucking it, kept chasing down blocks, drawing fouls, and finally he got us all out of the funk when he found Shaq for that alley-oop. His refusal to escape led to a different kind of escape. An escape from the recent past, from mediocrity, from humiliation, from the Western Conference—and into the Finals and the victory that awaited.

Posted on by Jason E-W

Apps Vs. Public Lands

Litter, according to Merriam–Webster, is: “an untidy accumulation of objects.” In its verb form, Wikipedia describes littering thusly: “To litter means to drop and leave objects, often man-made, […] on the ground and leave them there indefinitely […].”

The word “litter” makes no implicit value statement, it is simply a recognition of stuff being where it shouldn’t be. You know that scene in most natural disaster or end-of-the-world blockbusters wherein everyone abandons their vehicles to stare at the destruction or run for dear life? Cars are a wonderful and very useful invention, but that’s littering.

Have you ever come across a peculiar-looking branded bicycle in the middle of the sidewalk? Well that bike, just like those cars that could no longer help the drivers outrun the volcanic lava, was useful to someone but is now an inconvenience and an eyesore for the thousands who will come across it. It is litter, at least until some other bike share user claims it and subsequently abandons it somewhere else.

The idea of bike sharing is great: bikes (ecological, maneuverable, fast) plus sharing (I think we can all agree that sharing is great). But what these programs really offer their users is ease: hop on, ride wherever you want, and when you’re finished—hop off. Great for the user, great for the company, but what about the rest of us?

Just as ride hailing platforms like Uber and Lyft have worsened traffic and even emergency parking availability in major metropolises, bike sharing apps are littering public spaces and assuring the rest of us that users will get these bikes back on the road soon enough. Maybe, but—as with ride hailing companies—availability and ease are integral to their business model. So for these companies, more bikes in more places is integral, and then they’ll worry about pairing these stray bikes with paying customers.

Roadways, parks, and sidewalks are for public use, and biking seems like quality public use, right? While these programs are far from expensive, they still promote an exclusionary service. For one, these are applications, only available to smartphone owners; and payment is carried out via credit card. You may be thinking that these are two mainstays of modern life, but that poor soul sleeping on the bench in that same public park would disagree.

Perhaps this diet version of littering will become commonplace, an inescapable annoyance like light and sound pollution before it. Maybe the “analog” version of renting a bike in a local bike shop wasn’t so bad after all. Or maybe there’s a better alternative with a more inclusive business model and a more neighborhood-friendly approach.

Whether by way of smartphone apps or pop-up bike huts, the bike sharing phenomenon is likely here to stay. Now comes the hard work of making it beneficial for all who use public areas.

 

Posted on by Jason E-W

Dancing in the Streets

You can still find it. That old-world animal spirit synonymous with Pagan harvest festivities and ancient Aztec rituals. You can find it in Mardi Gras and Carnival: individuals opening up and becoming part of the masses, losing themselves in a new dimension only to, hours later, realize that they have been transported to the other side, now free of the weight of regret, the heaviness of solemnity, the piousness of church rules.

The stewards of Christianity promoted festivals such as Carnival and the Feast of Fools, confident in the benefits of allowing church followers a brief respite from the monotony of self-control. And then, just like that, the church disapproved of these same traditions, labeling dancing as the devil’s work.

But what is the church? On the one hand it is a physical house of worship, but it is deeper than that—church is an idea, an evolving idea tended to by a revolving cast of characters. The organized church is political, run by a set of officials with presumed power. But philosophers and laymen are just as prone to ideas as the robed and white-haired religious custodians.

Organized religion’s inability to define its own notions of good and bad shows the transiency of the church as an idea. The church as a building, however, is stagnant—it can be demolished or abandoned, but for the most part it is just a place in which people do what is deemed appropriate. And some still see the church as a place of dance worship, as Lauren Michele Jackson argues: “If, indeed, as Pink says, ‘God wants you to shake your ass,’ the dance floor must be the house of worship. God is a DJ, the church is a dance floor, that dance floor is life. Church is life.”

But there were spiritual places long before there were church houses. Places where, as Barbara Ehrenreich notes in her book, individuals gathered to forget their individuality, to lose themselves in the sway of the group, in the wild freedom of just letting go.

Ultimately, it comes down to whose opinions one values. What if a different group of people ran a different type of church? Take, for example, the Universal Life Church, or George Freeman’s purchase of a run-down church he subsequently transformed into the Monastery. Using the very same edifice built by Christianity, he connected to the church’s past acceptance of revelry, fusing dance with the ideals of refuge and equality. In this safe space, disconnected from organized religion, the misunderstood joined together in dance as an antidote to the troubles outside.

Though this freedom used to be welcomed in the church, used as a safety valve to ease the pressures of religious piety, over time this joyous uninhibitedness has had to seek shelter outside the inflexible bounds of the Christian church, out in the street where the ideas of religion, including Christianity, were born and originally spread.

Posted on by Jason E-W

The Sound of Google Translate

Google Translate reminds me of Simon & Garfunkel’s classic opening words: “Hello darkness, my old friend…”

The blunt reading would be that I’m comparing Google Translate to darkness: It lacks context, life experience, a clear objective or target audience, source country or author, etc. As such, often you type in an interesting paragraph and it spits mush back at you.

But on a deeper level, what is The Sound of Silence really about?

Paul Simon treats darkness (and its running mate: silence) as a confidant, an ambience that allows him to indulge in a calmer, more pensive state of mind. Darkness is a place where he can work things out, a tool that surely helped him write many a hit single.

But darkness is an inward-facing tool. It is a place where thoughts are mulled over and lines are worked and reworked. Think of it as where you draft an article before publishing it for public consumption. Darkness is where Simon: a) tried to understand the confusing aspects of a busy day; or b) started to create the melodies of a future song.

And that is exactly how Google Translate works.

It is a useful tool for people trying to understand a foreign text. Trying to find more information on some obscure historical figure from another country? Copy and paste their foreign-language biography or obituary and have fun learning while trying to parse together the full meaning behind the words.

And it is a useful tool for translators in their brainstorming phase, as they hunt for the perfect word and then fit said word into a context and structure that is, quite frankly, too complex for Google Translate to recreate. It’s great when looking for synonyms, can be helpful for building full sentences, but is unable to capture the thesis of a text, to summarize the main ideas into an eloquent message in the target language.

Google Translate, like darkness, is an inward-facing tool, something that helps individuals to understand ideas written in a language foreign to them. But if you are creating content for the public to read, to find and trust in your brand, you need an outward-facing tool.

Just as companies employ writers to understand the company’s goals and target audience and create content in line with both, you must apply the same thought process when trying to reach customers in another language.

This requires translators who understand the company and the ideas that make up the backbone of the text, translators who understand the target audience in the target country and can convey those ideas in the manner that will best reach these new readers.

Posted on by Jason E-W

A Brief Evolutionary History of Translation

We have no way of knowing exactly when translation came into formal practice, but if we think of translation as the sharing of culture by way of language, it stands to reason that translation has existed as long as different cultures have encountered each other. The stronger the gravitas of a culture—or the greater the desire of a community to spread its culture—the greater the importance of translation.

As such, though translation was already a known practice, the rise of religion really made translation an important cultural factor on a broad scale. Translations exist for the Mesopotamian story of Gilgamesh, originally written around 2000 BCE, and subsequent Indian, Chinese, Arabic, and Greek translations scatter the next couple millennia. But the convergence of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam in predominantly Muslim Spain in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries paved the way for the first School of Translators in Toledo and a cultural revolution that would come to be known as The Renaissance.

Spain, a bonafide melting pot at the time, played host for many reasons, including its geography, as it is situated neatly between Western Europe, Eastern Europe, and Northern Africa. Also, it was a relatively open and liberal country, not partaking in The Condemnations going on in nearby Paris. Latin-, Arabic-, and Hebrew-speaking philosophers, scientists, and theologians could intermingle and freely trade ideas, which required translation and even the creation of local pidgins and vernaculars.

This free flow of information between cultures and languages augmented the role of translation in society, as both the frequency and importance of translation grew by leaps and bounds.

This almost 1,000-year-old thirst for knowledge and cultural curiosity has only grown, and with it the ease of information transfer, thanks to constantly evolving technology.

First came the increasing ease of physical transportation, with people being able to cross oceans by boat, traverse on land via horse, carriage, then car, and finally the ability to fly. As people encountered new places, they also encountered new peoples and new cultures and sought to learn from and share with these new communities.

Then came information sharing, through people visiting foreign locations as discussed above, through letters and mail, and now through the internet via computers and smartphones. The information being shared varies, from cultural histories, scientific breakthroughs, and philosophic conundrums to fictional tales, anecdotes, and simple discussions.

From the mundane to the lifesaving, from attacks to budding friendships, communication connects the world—a world with diverse cultures, traditions, and languages.

Posted on by Jason E-W

Cowardly Adherence to an Unknown (Preached) Past

Brave New World. Aldous Huxley.

I suppose I should iterate my thesis before I traipse too far down the path, so here it is: Angst. Namely, of the (modern & modernist) teenage breed. One of my greatest difficulties in reading has always been deciphering what the author deems as “good” and what the author deems as “bad.” My stance (also in life) is one of constant and consensual moral ambiguity.

That being said, it seems fairly obvious to me—by the fact that the book was written in the first place, the style of the book, and the commentary I have read of it (I have not yet fully indulged in Huxley’s own critique, Brave New World Revisited, which I have as a postmortem included with my copy)—that the new world presented in the book is, in its simplest form, “bad.” It is (in some semblance of rank): Godless, regulated, unindividual/communist, simplistic, industrial, and morally confused. It is close to not having morals, and another way of putting that would be “unabashed,” but that is not the case. Rather, the community is unabashed in regards to baser (read: carnal) instincts, but utterly shocked/frightened/nerve-wrecked at the mention of family, namely “mother.” Many of these are interwoven, most obviously the first and the final points, which is part of the reason I felt “Godless” deserved to be first and foremost on my list.

Ah, so many contradictions, especially points one and two: Godless vs. regulated. Religion is a system of regulation, but one which relies on the past and doesn’t really focus much on the future (in the world of the living) or even the present. Also, it is a system which bases a fair portion of its regulation on the notion that humans (at least post-Adam & Eve) are inherently bad, but that’s okay as long as these humans try to make amends and strive for something greater than their humanity—namely, God. (Religion/God are primarily referring to the various forms of Christianity.) The New World, however, seeks to cut out the sexual tension rather than circumnavigate it through rigorous mental and spiritual fortitude. In the New World, conditioning is scientific rather than (or in addition to) social, and the conditioning calls for mass amounts of carefree sexual engagement with a distinct avoidance and fear of anything emotionally taxing/bonding/lengthy, i.e. romantic relationships and family (which of course are the building blocks for religious followers who are not part of the church—a contradiction that shows how similar the two worlds actually are).

Quick P.S.—My second thesis is that Aldous Huxley really had no idea what he was writing about and was a narrow-minded twit who was unwilling to view the world in any way different than the way in which he was raised to view it. And that he was extraordinarily contradictory. In mapping out the credulity that his New World is a terrible place, he cites both their reverence of man (as opposed to God or spirituality) and their lack of self. This lack of self is what I believe Huxley is arguing as his thesis: An overly communal world devoid of individuality, promoting commerciality—a combination of all that is wrong with communism and consumerism (which of course is often the complaint lodged against democracy) is bad.

It seems to me as though Huxley presents the “Savage” as the character of good—at least, he has the classic characteristics and plays a central role (once he appears). He is individual, he is classically moral, he loves his mother (even though we are often led to believe: without reason—which I’m not sure is so “good”), he values effort, he values himself. And he values angst. He strives to separate and depress himself in search of a greater good. However, if I were to run to the defense of Huxley (which I would never do), I would point out that his “good” character is actually three-pronged: originally we have Bernard Marx—he finds the Savage and her mother in New Mexico (congratulations, New Mexico! A haven for savages and hidden history!); next we get a glimpse of Helmholtz Watson—who, like Bernard, thinks differently from the masses, and he even tries his hand at writing and strives for more than is on offer in their world; finally, of course, is the Savage (John). So let us elucidate upon them:

Bernard: We first see him as the lone outcast in a city/world of scientifically created drones—like Neo in the Matrix except not doomed to horrendous sequels that some people have the gall to defend. First off, my argument—which I’m not claiming Huxley was unaware of—is that we are tainted by the fact that this character has the spotlight and we actually receive insight into his thought process. Now, this is Huxley’s world, so we should (at least on the surface) believe that we are gaining insight into this character for a reason, and that reason is probably that he is in fact different and semi-capable of independent thought and a thirst for progress. Okay, fine. So this guy is different—and how so? Primarily in his views toward sex. (Quick aside—are you catching the angst vibes?) Instead of freely and wantonly engaging in the lascivious acts of the primal, he presents a desire to disengage and search for more. A DESIRE—very important. This is our first view of his weakness—this guy is lame. Also, he has feelings toward a sexual object, aka a person of the opposite sex. Eww—Feelings?! Totally against the rules. Thus, we have this place in our hearts for the rebellious romantic (or maybe he’s a romantic rebel…I can’t decide). However, he is not strong enough to stay true to his morals—probably the fault of society and his conditioning, but still—not cool. Fast forward to post-Savage time: He sells out…hard. He gets caught up in the fame and the ladies and totally screws over his Savage homeboy. Now, let’s make fun of Huxley a bit: He presents people of power, and each wants and enjoys his/her (actually, I don’t recall any powerful females—misogynist asshole!) power. Also, they are looked up to, and thus win more sexual endeavors, even though sex is supposed to be conditioned to the point of being a second-nature activity in which the masses indulge with little to no impunity—they do it for their own pleasure. This is contradictory because his society is supposed to be one of drones unable to think freely, yet he is pointing out that people still like and are attracted to power. This is getting boring: next!

Hemholtz! This is Bernard’s way more impressive friend. This guy, for me, really reinforced (to a more conscious state) the notion that there is very little difference between this New World and our world. Hemholtz is brilliant, strong, handsome, cordial, social, confident, and very assured of all of these facts. However, he is also troubled—troubled by the monotony of day-to-day life, by the stupidity of everyone else, and by the possibility that he has limitations. In short, he is the person most people—in our world—want to be and/or want in their life. And he holds that same position in the New World—Bernard is jealous of the amount of ladies Hemholtz effortlessly pulls, whilst Hemholtz is utterly nonchalant about his sexual conquests and would much rather be tackling his internal/ascension issues. However, he doesn’t deny himself the pleasures that accompany his trust in himself and has no qualms with his indulgences—Bernard, meanwhile, wanted more sexual encounters, but reprimanded himself for his weakness when he indulged. But! Hemholtz is a secondary character and we don’t spend much time with him, and even less in/as him. A such…who’s to say what he is really like. In the end, however, the head honcho (who is basically perfect and awe-inspiring) singles out Hemholtz as being very similar to his younger self. Hemholtz receives his gift/sentence with composure, honor, and even joy at finally being able to be alone with himself and unlock all of his many secrets. After all, isn’t that possibility what lures regular folk to more complex characters such as Helmholtz?

Mr. Savage. The Savage is presented as being very odd by New World standards. And guess what—he is weird; he’s downright fucked up. I suppose his upbringing is partially at fault, but he has some screws loose. As this is a story of teen angst, his largest problem is with sex. His mother was a New World woman who was left stranded with the savages—so she was totally comfortable, familiar, and fun-minded in regards to sex. And the savage males took advantage. However, both mother and son were ridiculed by the village for the mother’s looseness, and Mr. Savage was an outcast in a community of outcasts. So he read a bunch of “classic” stuff (not including the Bible) and tried to build a shield of pain to distract and ascend from his life of ridicule. Real quick, on the reading point—this guy does not create any of his own knowledge, he just runs off at the mouth with quotes from dead people. And, it seems to me, Huxley praises this—he sees Mr. Savage as honorable because he values the same love of which Shakespeare wrote. Mr. Savage doesn’t know anything about love in a romantic sense (and I personally question his love for his mother—and he has no friends), is terrible in social situations, hates sex without understanding it, and is an all-around infant of a human. An overgrown infant who is good at undergoing pain (admittedly, both physical and mental/emotional).

Well, plenty of stuff happens, but we’ll fast forward toward the end of his stay in the New World (well, amongst the peoples): He has a super crush on Lenina. Why? Well I’m pretty sure it isn’t love, since he barely knows her and then he proceeds to hate her with a vengeance due to one disagreement in life practice, rather than accepting her. Okay, so he thinks he loves Lenina, which basically means he wants to rock her world under the sheets and probably in all kinds of other places as well. (T-e-e-n—a-n-g-s-t?) Linda had been a hussy, but upon noticing a difference in Bernard (towards relationships/sex), she started mulling over the idea of spending life with one person rather than embracing the sexual communism of her era. Well, Bernard turned out to be a fame-hungry quack, but this new guy…he is utterly different, much surer in his convictions (which would come back to bite her—almost literally—in the ass), and has an utterly sexy/intriguing animalness about him. He has, accepts, and cares for his mother; he shows bravery; he seeks improvement; he is in touch with the uncivilized side of humanity (though…isn’t sexuality the uncivilized/animal side? All of society is so accustomed to sex that they are decidedly unanimalistic about it, whereas this virgin foreigner gives off pheromones like a locomotive—however, their animalism comes out later…). Okay, so they like each other, and it’s obviously apparent to everyone (read: the reader), but they dance around the bush like school kids (teen angst) until finally moves are made. Linda is all, “Why are you weird with me, Savage?” And Savage is all, “No no no, that’s code for I like you.” And Linda’s all, “Oh cool, me too: let’s fuck!” And Savage is all: “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!” (proceeds to go crazy) “You whore! You fucking whore! Ewww! I can’t believe you’re so unpure, you whore! I hate you and I’m going to kill you!” Needless to say, this is not only a bit overkill, but a bit unstable. So Linda locks herself in the bathroom while the Savage savagely stomps around muttering words from dead people (since he’s an idiot and has none of his own) under his breath. Yes, psycho-killer status. Finally he leaves.

Okay, fast forward again: Mr. Savage isn’t allowed to be banished to a deserted island with his hipster friends (teen angst), so he throws a hissy fit and runs away from home, setting up shop in a lighthouse that is decidedly too posh for him. So he beats the shit out of himself with a whip, which is obviously hilarious. It really is, and if you disagree then you are going about life all wrong. So he’s getting all violent monk on himself like the albino guy in that terrible book/movie about Da Vinci and Jesus’ mom, when who should show up but humans. I don’t remember if the first people to see him were secretive or what, I think they were in a helicopter (which he could hear), and they returned to society with news of the crazy man. Blah blah blah, some guy makes a documentary, everyone loves it, reporters come to antagonize him, and all the while he just wants to be left alone. So greedy. You can’t make a spectacle of yourself and not expect/allow people to watch. But one thing I’ve learned about teen angst: you always want people to watch, you just don’t want to want that, so you deny it. Smooth move, Mr. Savage. Well, someone has the grand idea to bring Lenina along, and she exits the helicopter reciting something along the lines of forgiving him for being absolutely batshit crazy and almost killing her and that she still loves (whatever that is—in the New World…) him and wants to try again. Classic lines, except there was a helicopter purring in the immediate vicinity, so he didn’t hear and I don’t think we did either. He, being the stable young man he is, reacts by battering the hell out of her, and I’m pretty sure killing her. ‘Cause that’s how you handle a crush, or a breakup, or being cheated on, or whatever was going through his head. And guess what: the crowd of modern drone humans proceeded to go batshit crazy as well, feeding off his jubilant hatred. It’s reminiscent of the final scene in Perfume.

That’s about all in regards to the three-pronged attempt at the perfect character.

Posted on by Jason E-W

Holes

Sometimes I wonder why there are holes. In the world. In the Earth. In the land on which we (the universal we, encompassing all living entities) live, breath, walk, see, envision, hunt, die, watch, sleep, crawl, slither, jump, build clocks, reprimand, think, create, act stupid, meow, bark, cry, embrace silence, pick our noses, pick roses, run away, run toward, define, extrapolate, inebriate, contract migraines, procreate, exonerate, hum, drink, be, despise, devour, dissolve, exist, transcend, disappear. So I wonder if holes have anything to do with time, but thinking of time’s relation to (anything) makes me question time as relative to solipsism. And then it’s like I’m walking too quickly all over again but it kinda gets me high so I don’t want to slow down—I need to. What if a piano existed that could be played in the same fashion as a guitar? I wonder how the Earth would spin if there were no holes in it; I wonder if oceans count as holes. Lakes? Ponds? I wonder if the mass of all the mountains, hills, etc. on planet Earth is equal to the amount of mass displaced by the oceans, lakes, etc., like the world was originally smooth and equi-altitudinal but decided that its sheen was boring and created a topography for itself by simply displacing areas in a sort of strategic dance. Where do holes lead? Do they fascinate people? Do people driving their cars find me intriguing if/when they see me walk past them? Do I find drivers of cars intriguing when they drive past me? What would happen if humans were forced to cut off one entire leg at birth: would we evolve into one-legged creatures? Would our one leg evolve into two? What if we promote a lack of balance—will we sprout tails (again)? Sometimes everything seems so close and at other times so far away, especially in the desert. There are so few physical deterrents betwixt points a and b, it seems like I could glide, feet inches off the ground, like Monty (Chip ‘N Dale Rescue Rangers) being summoned by a nice hunk of Swiss cheese, and arrive at the destination upon which my eyes were fixed within minutes. But the heat. Boredom and time: another interpolation which awaits each of us and all of us.

Posted on by Jason E-W

Hitchhiking

It is common that the desert day doesn’t so much transform as it does disappear into night. I was sitting on my curb, looking to the horizon for the improbable car, decided to lie back and close my eyes for maybe seven minutes, and when I rose again night had set. Not much changed from pre- to post-sunset except the amount of light; it was still hot, dry, and empty. Still desert, still bearable, still alone and waiting at what must be one of the five worst hitchhiking spots along I-40.

So, resigned to stay the night and persevere by foot tomorrow, I lied back and allowed myself to find comfort in a state of half-sleep, waking at every chance of a ride. Finally it came: a two-manned minivan filled with stuff (supposedly groceries). The twosome navigating this vehicle asked me where I was headed and said they’d take me a few miles down the road, to Newberry Springs, where I could wait at the 24-hour Chevron. It being dark, I was already a bit hesitant/suspicious, and these were certainly not city people, just a couple desert rats who loved to hoard stuff and move around to all the delightful towns between Victorville, CA and Wickenburg, AZ. And, of course, being packrats, they did not have seats in the minivan; I instead held the sliding door handle and situated myself between my backpack and the dog(?)food bag, being careful not to “step on [his] groceries” as I had been warned upon entering the van. So we traveled up the I-40, the passenger engaged in constant (and usually unintelligible) conversation, sometimes with me, sometimes with the driver, and always with himself. Regardless of whether or not I understand, I pretty much just laugh and agree, always conscious of the proximity of my knife to my hand. You know, just in case. This was probably around 9, definitely after 8:00pm, and they dropped me off at the Chevron, pleasant as could be and talking about paying it forward. Yes, like the movie.

So I got out, scoped the vicinity, and asked the station clerk if I could charge my phone, to which he slyly replied, “Yes, outside.” Whatever that meant—obviously there were no outlets outside. Anyway, the clerks weren’t too thrilled with my presence, but much less happy with some old lady also trying to hitch a ride into Arizona, so I kept quiet and told them I was waiting for someone, which was far from a lie. A few cars came through, all looking local, and within a half-hour (guessing) a truck pulled along the street and a trucker got out to make a quick stop. He looked exceedingly sane, so I asked him if he had a ride East, upon which he asked if I was “clean.” Meaning drugs, not dirt, sweat, filth, and grime, so I assured him that I was. I threw my bag in the trailer, hopped in, and made myself comfortable. He said he was going to Kingman, AZ tonight and I said that would be great, then made sure to keep the conversation flowing so as to warrant an invitation to what I presumed would be the second stage of his journey. Lo and behold, he told me he was on his way to Atlanta, GA and that he would not only gladly take me to Albuquerque, but would allow me to sleep on the upper cot in the cab if I so pleased. At first I said I’d try my luck outside, but then acquiesced, thinking a guaranteed ride with what by all markers seemed a trustworthy human would be better than rolling the dice again. Plus: a bed.

Posted on by Jason E-W

Mexico City

This City can be mapped out by Oxxos and Sanborns, unlabeled streets and screaming buses; measured in units of taxis and street vendors; aged in terms of dynasties or an individual’s minutes and hours spent silently lost; viewed between skyscrapers and parks, abandoned shacks and Argentine restaurants; heard amidst the screams and the laughs, the barks and the rustling of leaves, the airplanes and the metro rails, the suffocating fog and the liberating silence.

This City is oscillating between Alive and Dead: blanched-white walls and technicolored doors. But it cannot be defined.

Posted on by Jason E-W

3 Things to Look for when Hiring a Freelance Translator

Hiring is a delicate process—part art and part science—and one that usually requires more work on the hirer’s side of the equation: going through emails and resumes, comparing and contrasting prospects’ levels of education, experience, fit, potential, etc.

So how does one decide on the perfect translator for their company’s ongoing content or a one-off project? First of all, you have to know what you have and what you want.

What kind of content do you have, what is the content’s current purpose, and what will be the goal of the translated content?

All of these play a key role in choosing a translator. So the first factor is subject matter: choose an eloquent translator for artful or literary content; choose a translator with mechanical engineering experience or education for a technical manual on mechanical engineering; choose a translator versed in medical jargon for a medical translation. You get the point.

Keep in mind that an experienced translator will likely have resources (in-person contacts, online communities, reference books) to handle light technical subject matter that is new to them. But in general, if you haven’t worked with a translator previously, make sure they know the subject they’ll be translating.

Plenty of people know two languages, but that doesn’t make them translators. Just like many people are native English speakers but you wouldn’t want them editing your content. Does your prospective hire have training in the translation field? A degree, some courses, a certificate?

Not all translators study translation in college, and that isn’t necessarily a negative. Maybe they studied the field in which they now translate, or they studied literature or communication. But ongoing translation study is important, even if it consists of a couple webinars a year to stay up to date on current trends and technology.

And if someone seems like a good fit but can’t offer any relevant education? Have them send you some samples or ask that they translate a short sample of your content.

Lastly, you will want to know the translator’s relevant experience. Are they recent graduates? Have they worked only with agencies? In these cases they may not have samples available, as translators can’t share translations without the client’s permission. Do they work with direct clients? Can they provide references or point you to published works they have translated?

Know what you’re looking for regarding subject matter mastery, translation-specific training, and industry experience. And remember, education and experience are useful measures for judging quality and fit, but don’t always tell the whole story.