workshop. workshopping papers is so stressful to me.. I dislike workshopping other people’s papers and I dislike people workshopping my papers.. especially when they don’t understand the papers meaning.
She stood in the workshop of her father, looking down at the tool in her hand. It felt foreign, she was always told to be feminine, to take care of the house, but at the same time it felt right, it felt freeing. She loved it. Her father look at her with pride as she handed him the hammer, he nodded at her and went back to his work but his approval meant the world to her.
It was at the back of the property, way back, almost to the fence of the people who lived behind us. Not much to it. Kind of a bigger looking dollhouse, with one old door and a lock that didn’t work. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t one to think about things like that. On warm summer days, he’d go out to the workshop and get the old lawn mower and run it over the grass a few times to please his wife. He wipe off his forehead, as though the whole thing had taken a lot of time and effort, then go back into the workshop, pushing the mower in front of him. He’d be in there most of the afternoon; you’d hear sawing and hammering and once in awhile, a big loud laugh because he liked listening to radio talk shows when he worked. He liked the guys who said crazy things that no one in their right mind would ever say. Because he was the opposite. He kept things to himself; didn’t want to hurt people or say things that were mean. He just wasn’t like that. It’s too bad that someone else didn’t feel the same way about him. Someone who walked into that man’s church, which was his workshop, and ended his life on exactly the kind of day he loved.
The whole thing was falling apart. She looked tensely at the stage manager. “Break?”
“Take five everyone.”
Thank god.
The cigarette was in her mouth before the light lock door had even swung closed and she lit it as she stepped into the surprisingly bright sun.
Being in a theater all day, you lose all sense of time.
And perspective.
An opportunity to try something out in a safe environment. To learn new skills and practice them, with a common understanding that mistakes are accepted and expected.
She opened her eyes but couldn’t see. It was pitch black, but the smell of stale blood and bleach hit her like a hammer. She turned her head sharply to the left as the rumble of a small motor roared to life. Her screams were no match for those of malevolent metal of the chainsaw whirling closer.
Workshops can be fun and also scary if you lack social skills. I’m never one to sign up for workshops at the drop of a hat. I like to investigate them a little first.
The entire studio was covered in dust, some of the tiles on the floor were either cracked or missing, and the ceiling clearly would leak on rainy days based on the evident water marks and numerous empty pails scattered around the room. The only focal–and selling–point that this studio has to offer is its scenic 270 degree view of the city because of its corner space configuration.
“How much?” She asked the building manager.
“$800 a month, excluding electricity and water.” The manager replied.
“…Well?” The manager said, doing his best to close the deal, and to break the few seconds of silence that enveloped the room.
“I’ll take it.”
workshop. workshopping papers is so stressful to me.. I dislike workshopping other people’s papers and I dislike people workshopping my papers.. especially when they don’t understand the papers meaning.
She stood in the workshop of her father, looking down at the tool in her hand. It felt foreign, she was always told to be feminine, to take care of the house, but at the same time it felt right, it felt freeing. She loved it. Her father look at her with pride as she handed him the hammer, he nodded at her and went back to his work but his approval meant the world to her.
It was at the back of the property, way back, almost to the fence of the people who lived behind us. Not much to it. Kind of a bigger looking dollhouse, with one old door and a lock that didn’t work. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t one to think about things like that. On warm summer days, he’d go out to the workshop and get the old lawn mower and run it over the grass a few times to please his wife. He wipe off his forehead, as though the whole thing had taken a lot of time and effort, then go back into the workshop, pushing the mower in front of him. He’d be in there most of the afternoon; you’d hear sawing and hammering and once in awhile, a big loud laugh because he liked listening to radio talk shows when he worked. He liked the guys who said crazy things that no one in their right mind would ever say. Because he was the opposite. He kept things to himself; didn’t want to hurt people or say things that were mean. He just wasn’t like that. It’s too bad that someone else didn’t feel the same way about him. Someone who walked into that man’s church, which was his workshop, and ended his life on exactly the kind of day he loved.
The whole thing was falling apart. She looked tensely at the stage manager. “Break?”
“Take five everyone.”
Thank god.
The cigarette was in her mouth before the light lock door had even swung closed and she lit it as she stepped into the surprisingly bright sun.
Being in a theater all day, you lose all sense of time.
And perspective.
An opportunity to try something out in a safe environment. To learn new skills and practice them, with a common understanding that mistakes are accepted and expected.
There is this workshop that you can draw whatever you want and they will carve it out of wood, make it into a stuffed animal or sculpt it.
during may secondary school I had workshops twice a week.
its a place where a person rents n out an use it as a store to make their own ,money
go to school and then go to your friend to se her new dog called max.
my dad built his flatbed for his truck in our huge farm workshop he is now rebuilding our farm planter before this spring
She opened her eyes but couldn’t see. It was pitch black, but the smell of stale blood and bleach hit her like a hammer. She turned her head sharply to the left as the rumble of a small motor roared to life. Her screams were no match for those of malevolent metal of the chainsaw whirling closer.
Workshops can be fun and also scary if you lack social skills. I’m never one to sign up for workshops at the drop of a hat. I like to investigate them a little first.
The entire studio was covered in dust, some of the tiles on the floor were either cracked or missing, and the ceiling clearly would leak on rainy days based on the evident water marks and numerous empty pails scattered around the room. The only focal–and selling–point that this studio has to offer is its scenic 270 degree view of the city because of its corner space configuration.
“How much?” She asked the building manager.
“$800 a month, excluding electricity and water.” The manager replied.
“…Well?” The manager said, doing his best to close the deal, and to break the few seconds of silence that enveloped the room.
“I’ll take it.”