I have been through about fourteen chapters (i.e fourteen classes) of Stella Adler's book "The Art of Acting" and it's really fascinating (wow that was a damn hard word to spell). To basically put it in layman terms, acting is about using your imagination, and building circumstances around you and just react and play a long with it. You don't act feelings, actually you don't act at all. You DO.
Like Sir Ben Kingsley said in his "Inside the Actor's Studio" episode, the camera is allergic to acting, it doesn't like it or take it in one bit. If you "act" in front of a camera people will spot it in a second. The camera's achilles heel is BEHAVIOR. Behavior, behavior, behavior.
What a long strange trip this is going to be. I am of course still dreaming about New York Film Academy and that scholarship. I've gone through it time and time again in my head and yup, if I do get that scholarship I'm off, great isn't it? I can't imagine anywhere else to study to be honest, not a single place in the world, except under Stella Adler herself but alas. NYFA just attracts me something immense.
My idea book, where I write down all my small little ideas I get is getting a little bit thicker by the week/month.
I am going to leave you with this though, although I have already given you too much, some insight to a great mind, mine. (HA!) and a CLASSIC song (still got it playing as I write this in loop). Here is a amazing short film from... Yes Uzbekistan, how did you guess? :) Based on Ray Bradbury's short story called "There will come soft rains" which I am guessing is based on a poem by Sara Teasdale. And I am giving you all three bitches!
And the poem, three is a charm. Cha cha
" There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.