Wednesday, August 21, 2013


While biking, Joel Bean and I found a little squirrel that didn't run away when we biked past. Being Cockerhams, we stopped to check on him . . . and brought him home. He is now living in our old guinea pig cage while we build him a proper squirrel cage. After rather extensive research, we have determined that he is about 7-8 weeks old and shouldn't have been out of the nest yet. We've been feeding him substitute formula (acquired from my dad's cousin who is a veterinarian) and watching him adorably nibble on apples and nuts. We're presently trying to determine when it would be best to re-acclimate him to the outdoors, but, in the meantime, here are some pictures. 

*nibbling on a walnut in Joel's hands

*eating a fig at Pop's house

*crawling up my arm 

Also, we named him Jacque after Brian Jacques author of the Redwall series. 

Monday, August 12, 2013

Woolf visits the Garfield Conservatory in Chicago

(for my Mama) 

haphazard thoughts from working at a fine arts camp

To be a dancer means that you never really get to separate yourself from your art. You can't walk away from the paintbrush or the clay or the instrument because you are those things - your body, your emotions, your stability are the material of your art.

Because of this, dance is incredibly raw and real.

Because of this dance sometimes becomes a little bit like a super hero's suit that becomes permanently attached (through a freak accent, desire for power, extraterrestrial life form, etc.). The hero can no longer separate themselves from who they are as a "regular person" and that external struggle magnifies the internal struggle they have in maintaining two identities- which they can never really do.

At what point is the performance "real" - to you and to the audience - and at what point does the performance remain an "act"? At what point does emotional connection blur (or clarify) the boundary between a performance and an experience? And, isn't every performance an experience?

. . . And, isn't a good dancer one who makes every performance "real"?

 . . . And, yet, there must be some distinction between the woods and the cardboard trees . . .