Good morning,
Welcome to the website I had to make in college. This portfolio will be a mess. This, I admit, is my own fault. My life in college is a mess, a rambling, tangential, sideways progress kind of deal with no graceful denouement. There’s no narrative to it. There’s no A to B, lineal progression from one point in life to the next. Nor is there any satisfying circularity to it, no literal or figurative return to the beginning, no cosmic cycle echoing fractal-like in miniature. I’m just as pretentious in my language as I was four years ago, but I never stopped being pretentious. I’m not as anxious about my future as I was, but only sometimes. I’m a steady ship. That doesn’t make for a good story.
Do I have to force a narrative? Maybe. I have to write about this somehow, and I don’t think I’m clever enough to sneak by on the power of my writing alone like the modernists. I’m not very good at talking about myself (and, in an example of rare linearity, I got steadily worse at it through college). In fact, the only type of first-person, sincere writing I can manage are letters. So I guess I’ll be writing letters.
Letters to whom? Not my friends. I write to them in code, and I think I’d get a poor grade in Honors 496 if no one could read my portfolio without spending hours puzzling out ERBRERRRZA, or something like that. The only other options are government officials and my family. The former are out; I only ever complain about policy, and frankly they’re not worth the money in stamps. The latter it is, then.
So this portfolio will be a letter to my family, or rather, a collection of letters to my family about my college years, about what I've done and have yet to do. Just like real collections of letters, it will be slightly jumbled, different threads picked up and forgotten, trivial in the eyes of strangers, interesting only insofar as life is interesting. Everything will carry a date, just as letters do, and if you like you can follow the correct chronology from the fall of 2017 to whatever dark, obscure year it is now. Or you can wander from link to link, stumbling blindly between topics just as I did for the past four years, and just as I am likely to do for the rest of my life. Get lost like me. At least in this format, you'll never have to read my cursive.
Cheers,
Haleh Mawson
Winter 2021
Do I have to force a narrative? Maybe. I have to write about this somehow, and I don’t think I’m clever enough to sneak by on the power of my writing alone like the modernists. I’m not very good at talking about myself (and, in an example of rare linearity, I got steadily worse at it through college). In fact, the only type of first-person, sincere writing I can manage are letters. So I guess I’ll be writing letters.
Letters to whom? Not my friends. I write to them in code, and I think I’d get a poor grade in Honors 496 if no one could read my portfolio without spending hours puzzling out ERBRERRRZA, or something like that. The only other options are government officials and my family. The former are out; I only ever complain about policy, and frankly they’re not worth the money in stamps. The latter it is, then.
So this portfolio will be a letter to my family, or rather, a collection of letters to my family about my college years, about what I've done and have yet to do. Just like real collections of letters, it will be slightly jumbled, different threads picked up and forgotten, trivial in the eyes of strangers, interesting only insofar as life is interesting. Everything will carry a date, just as letters do, and if you like you can follow the correct chronology from the fall of 2017 to whatever dark, obscure year it is now. Or you can wander from link to link, stumbling blindly between topics just as I did for the past four years, and just as I am likely to do for the rest of my life. Get lost like me. At least in this format, you'll never have to read my cursive.
Cheers,
Haleh Mawson
Winter 2021
My Philosophy:
It's simple. Do only that which you enjoy. If you are obligated to do that which you do not enjoy, try to enjoy it. Stockholm syndrome is your friend sometimes. If you find a task impossible to enjoy, get it over with and get on with your life. There's no point wasting time on unpleasant tasks.
It is a philosophy which has served me well through the years, perhaps because I am an easygoing person and naturally enjoy many things. I enjoy wandering on the beach: I shall pursue a career in marine botany. I like asking endless questions and finding out answers: I shall do research. I love statistics: I shall learn how to code in R. Nor, may I add, does this mindset prevent me from taking up salutary skills that I originally disliked. Years of stubborn running have rendered me addicted despite my lungs, and I forced myself to drink copious quantities of coffee and tea to gain an appreciation for their flavor. In all, I believe that my personal philosophy has brought me much good without robbing me of valuable knowledge or opportunities.
In truth, I think that the merits of suffering are overstated. A contented person is more likely to be kind and altruistic, at least according to the psych major who lives upstairs from me. Moreover, it seems to me that it is a small tragedy to regret a moment of your life, or to feel that your time has been wasted on wretched things. I strive to be the best possible version of myself, and that means reaching for the good. I adore the cold wild spray of water on windy days, the thick stench of mud from the sloughs and rivers, the sleety curve of peaks, the physical misery that accompanies hard work in beautiful places. I adore, too, the puzzles of writing and coding, the conversations with scholars, the silent reverie of poetry and articles about the Arctic. Pursuit of pleasure has served me well, insofar as I can tell. I do not see why I should go about like the old Catholic saint and starve myself to see God. (Metaphorically speaking; my equivalent would probably be a daily commute by car, since I dislike menial driving.) Until I find a convincing argument to the contrary, I shall persist in my modern Epicureanism. Life is meant for joy.
It is a philosophy which has served me well through the years, perhaps because I am an easygoing person and naturally enjoy many things. I enjoy wandering on the beach: I shall pursue a career in marine botany. I like asking endless questions and finding out answers: I shall do research. I love statistics: I shall learn how to code in R. Nor, may I add, does this mindset prevent me from taking up salutary skills that I originally disliked. Years of stubborn running have rendered me addicted despite my lungs, and I forced myself to drink copious quantities of coffee and tea to gain an appreciation for their flavor. In all, I believe that my personal philosophy has brought me much good without robbing me of valuable knowledge or opportunities.
In truth, I think that the merits of suffering are overstated. A contented person is more likely to be kind and altruistic, at least according to the psych major who lives upstairs from me. Moreover, it seems to me that it is a small tragedy to regret a moment of your life, or to feel that your time has been wasted on wretched things. I strive to be the best possible version of myself, and that means reaching for the good. I adore the cold wild spray of water on windy days, the thick stench of mud from the sloughs and rivers, the sleety curve of peaks, the physical misery that accompanies hard work in beautiful places. I adore, too, the puzzles of writing and coding, the conversations with scholars, the silent reverie of poetry and articles about the Arctic. Pursuit of pleasure has served me well, insofar as I can tell. I do not see why I should go about like the old Catholic saint and starve myself to see God. (Metaphorically speaking; my equivalent would probably be a daily commute by car, since I dislike menial driving.) Until I find a convincing argument to the contrary, I shall persist in my modern Epicureanism. Life is meant for joy.
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