CHSCEBFFF2R4Cambridge Halls, South Court, E Block, First Floor, Flat 2, Room 4.
Three socks hang from the bookcase-like structure that stands behind me as I sit at a desk. I am flicking through a textbook and occasionally clattering away at a keyboard to produce an answer to one of the questions posed to me by p316. The textbook is designed to instruct its reader in analysing the formal aspects of films. p316 is the second final page of the chapter on acting. This chapter is close to exactly twice as long as the other chapters which we have thus been instructed to read. I suppose this is because actors take more explaining to beginner film students than the likes of genre, mise-en-scène and cinematography. In one particularly pretentious English seminar we were told that you can analyse anything- that anything can be a text, a cultural artefact. But this is not the case. Actors are hard to read because
Nonsensical ScriptureI was mortified when I woke from my most peaceful slumber to find my favorite bathroom desecrated and my fine linen toilet paper strewn about. I immediately sought out my manservant Mr. Ruffle, who alleged that a cloaked figure had infiltrated my beautiful villa and laid waste to one of my twenty three extravagant restrooms. I've had this problem before; I had a security system installed after many of my imported Albanian soup spoons were stolen. I believed this system to be a panacea to the thefts that were occurring. Apparently I was proven wrong and made a fool of. In order to wash away those horrible feelings that larceny tends to give me, I decided to take a long steamy bubble bath in my second favorite bathroom since it was left untouched and pure. As I soaked in my lavish tub, I heard a strange shuffling. I opened my eyes and beheld a cloaked figure sitting atop my toilet. "How did you get in here?" I exclaimed with warranted surprise. The figure sardonically chuckled and leaned
Fade in to three boys walking through their second favourite park, a great oval zone of two inch grass framed by dog-trodden paths. It was mid-to-late afternoon and they had been out, wandering around, for two or so hours. Had they brought a football, this would have been a great spot to set up goalposts. Nevertheless, it was a bright, hot day and there was nobody else about, so as they continued along they spoke loudly and carefree.
Anyone want to go to the shop? asked the eldest. His name was Rob- he was one month older than Dan, and five months older than Ant.
Dan nodded, lank hair flopping over his eyes. Yeah, I'd like some food.
And I'm thirsty, said Ant.
They exited the park and headed toward the shop. The route took them up a long main road, and there was not a car in sight, nor a person. Just two rows of detached suburban houses with a strip of black tarmac running down the middle.
Apparel Collection: Never NormalWhile we should regularly observe and study traditional art and its history to inform our own pieces, deviantART exists as a community to encourage those within it to push the limits of “normal” and loudly embrace the title of “deviant”!
In life, there’s a lot of black-and-white. To maintain order, things are sorted into categories and organized into piles. Signs all around us dictate what we can and can’t do, but rarely do they inspire us to create and imagine. When brainstorming this shirt, I very clearly imagined standing in front of a stark door, and on it was written “NORMAL” in black and all caps. Simple. Nothing fancy. Serious.
Another vision appeared in my mind as I was brainstorming. The same door, the same authoritarian font, but this time, someone had scrawled something over the text, taking “NORMAL” right out of the equation, and leaving a beautiful, dripping reminder that sometimes it’s the ri
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