I’m gonna talk about Bruno …

We don’t talk about Bruno, no, no, no!
We don’t talk about Bruno… but

The more I play this song in my head, the more impressed I am with the rhyme schemes.

It was my weddingday
It was our weddingday
We were getting ready, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky
No clouds allowed in the sky

Bruno walks inwith a mischievous grin-
Thunder!!
You telling this story,oramI?
I’m sorry, mi vida, go on

Bruno says, “Itlookslikerain”
Why did he tell us?
In doing so, he floodsmybrain
Abuela, get the umbrellas
Married in a hurricane
What a joyous day… but anyway

We don’t talk about Bruno, no, no, no!
We don’t talk about Bruno!

Pepa and Felix, aside from interrupting one another (Pepa’s side-eye!), get some nice internal and partial rhymes in: ‘wedding-getting-ready’, ‘clouds-allowed’. I love the that ‘umbrellas’ is rhymed with ‘he tell us’, and partly echoed in ‘Abuela’, and the sort of echo between ‘married’ and ‘hurricane’, while ‘looks like rain’ and ‘floods my brain’ plays on sound, rhyme and the watery imagery.

Hey!Grew to live in fearofBrunostutteringorstumbling
I could always hearhim sort of mutteringandmumbling
I associate him with the sound of falling sand, ch-ch-ch
It’s a heavy lift, with a giftsohumbling
AlwaysleftAbuela and the familyfumbling
Grappling with prophecies they couldn’t understand
Do you understand?

This bit of Dolores’ is wonderfully complex. ‘Fear-stuttering-stumbling’ and ‘hear-muttering-mumbling’ has rhyme and alliteration across and within lines. I also think ‘fear/hear’ is also dimly echoed by the ‘-ering’ in ‘stuttering/muttering’ because then a similar pattern is repeated with ‘lift-gift-humbling’ and ‘left-family-fumbling’. There’s some great assonance with ‘associate-sound-sand’, and then some partial alliteration with ‘grappling-prophecies’.

A seven-foot frame
Rats along his back
When he calls your name
Itall fades to black
Yeah, he sees your dreams
And feastson your screams (hey!)

I’ve highlighted the stressed vowels in Camilo’s part. English spelling obscures some of the phonological patterns, but using a rough phonetic transcription, it’s perhaps easier to see the same vowels pop up over and over, with the high front vowel /i/ in ‘sees-dreams-feasts-screams’ building some tension at the end.

ɛ-ʊ-eɪ

a-ɔ-a

ɔ-ɔ-eɪ

ɔ-eɪ-a

i-ɔ-i

i-ɔ-i

We don’t talk about Bruno, no, no, no! (We don’t talk about Bruno, no, no, no!)
We don’t talk about Bruno (we don’t talk about Bruno!)

He told me my fish would die
The next day: dead! (No, no!)
He told me I’d grow a gut!
And just like he said… (no, no!)
He said that all my hair would disappear, now look at my head (no, no! Hey!)
Your fate is sealed when your prophecy is read!

Not much to say about the bit above - maybe that’s why Lin-Manuel Miranda gave it to the townsfolk!

He told me that the life of my dreams would be promised, and someday be mine
He told me that my power would grow, like the grapes that thrive on the vine
Óye, Mariano’s on his way

He told methat the man of my dreams would be just out of reach
Betrothed to another
It’s like I hear him now
Hey sis, I wantnot a sound out of you (it’s like I can hear him now)
I can hear him now

These two bits contrast with one another in the music itself, and mirror each other in the language. It’s neat that for Isabela’s line with ‘me-dreams-promised-someday’, the syllable with /m/ and/or /i/ is sung on a higher note that the surrounding syllables, while in the corresponding line for Dolores’ part ‘me-man-dreams-reach’, the /m/ and/or /i/ is generally on a lower note than the surrounding syllables. Then there is also some alliteration ‘grow-grapes’ and even ‘thrive-vine’, ‘betrothed-another’ and ‘want-not-sound’.

Rhyme scheme nerdfest over … for now. That’s what you get for talking about Bruno!

“And in eight days, my youth will be over forever. And what exactly do I have to show for myself?”

Tick, Tick, Boom! - Illustration by Relly Coquia

Forgot to post this here, but Tick, Tick, Boom! really helped me ease my birthday blues.

Lee Scoresby x OC! Ramona Gaillot

This is just a little comics I made. It’s actually a part of the fanfic I’m writing. But I don’t know if I will ever finish it.

P. S. I’m sorry for Lee’s looks. It’s the best I can do. I really can’t draw him in cartoon version.

And then some extra art.

I’ll post all of this again later on my other blog.

We are really getting an In the Heights movie with a movie soundtrack

THIS IS MY TIME TO SHINE

lintruther:

theimaginariemuse:

serpentstyles:

needed serotonin and these pictures specifically pulled through

A short story based off of “Stay Alive (Reprise)” from Hamilton, with the lyrics as the only dialogue.

I hope you guys like it and I apologize for any mistakes! I am also taking requests. ~ M

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Where is my son?” Tears threatened to spill as Alexander burst through the door, startling the doctor inside. He had heard the news and collapsed out of shock, but nonetheless ran towards Angelica’s home as if he was running out of time.
“Mr. Hamilton, come in,” Dr. Hosack said, attempting to keep his voice level. He had bandaged Phillip and given him medicine but his attempts to save the nineteen-year-old were futile, he knew this well. “They brought him in a half an hour ago, he lost a lot of blood on—”
“Is he alive?” Alexander’s voice grew more panicked, stepping towards the other man with frenzied brown eyes.
“Yes,” He replied hesitantly, feeling guilty as he saw a flicker of hope in Alexander’s eyes. His child was, in fact, alive, but he wouldn’t be for long. “But you have to understand, the bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm.”
A graze he could fix. A graze would heal eventually. But the young man’s organs were severely damaged, and all Dr. Hosack could do now was ensure that his family was well-informed of the situation and offer condolences.
“Can I see him please?” Alexander’s voice broke at the last word, grabbing onto the doctor’s forearms in a desperate attempt to steady his own shaking body. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be. His poor boy.
“I’m doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived—” The man attempted to stop Alexander from entering, knowing very well that the sight of their dying child is something that parents never overcome. But to no avail, the shorter man pushed past him hurriedly, running into the other room where his handsome young son lay on a table, dying.
“Philip!” The tears fell freely now, clouding Alexander’s vision as he took his son’s body in his hands, brushing aside his curly brown hair.
“Pa…” Philip’s once lively voice was now weak, barely a whisper above Alexander’s screeching thoughts. He looked up at his father and frowned slightly, feeling as though he had disappointed him in losing the duel. All he wanted was to make his father proud. “I did exactly as you said, Pa. I held my head up high.”
“I know, I know, shh.” Alexander stroked his son’s face lovingly, burning the image of it into his mind, lest he dare forget.
“High..” Philip said weakly, wanting to show Alexander that he followed his advice, he did what he was told.
“Shh.. I know, you did everything just right.” Alexander’s heart weighed in his chest. It was all his fault. It was his words that encouraged Philip’s participation in the duel. It was his advice that his son shoot towards the sky, the mark of a man of honor. It was one of his guns that George Eacker used — it was one of his guns that shot his Philip.
“Even before we got to ten,” Philip began, furrowing his brows as he looked his father in the eye. “I was aiming for the sky.”
“I know, I know.” He cried, at a loss for words. He never thought the day would come, but as he looked down at his son, much too young to die, he found it hard to formulate words as nothing he said could make this better.
“I was aiming for the sky.” The nineteen-year-old winced, his freckled face contorting into a harsh grimace as a new wave of pain shot through his body.
Alexander grew frantic, steadying his grip on his son. “I know, save your strength and stay alive.”
“No!” Eliza’s pained screams echoed throughout the room as she rushed to Philip’s side and helped to hold him, tears streaming down her gentle face.
“Eliza..” Alexander breathed, another weight being added to his already heavy heart. Their relationship had become strained as of late due to the Reynolds Pamphlet, detailing his affair with a young woman named Maria Reynolds that resulted in blackmail from her husband James. He had published it as an act of political sacrifice, as a way to refute rumors of embezzlement, but in saving himself he had ruined his family. Not only had he betrayed his wife, breaking his promise made several years prior that Eliza would never feel helpess, he had embarassed her by telling the world.
“Is he breathing, is he going to survive this?” She cried, frantically checking over her son and gasping as she saw his bloodstained shirt.
“Who did this, Alexander,” Eliza’s melodic voice grew into a distressed shout as her head snapped towards her husband, “Did you know?”
“Mom, I’m so sorry for forgetting what you taught me.” Philip reached up and grabbed his mother’s arm, crying as he realized what he was putting his mother through. She had always instructed him to look around at how lucky he was to be alive, that as long as he and his father came home at the end of the day, that was enough for her. Now it was nearing dusk, and he knew that he would not be coming home. For this he blamed himself, cursing in his mind as he thought back to the duel a day prior. He was shot at the count of seven, and yet the thought lingered in his mind that maybe he had miscounted. He was certainly nervous, and miscounting would be a logical explanation as to why he never saw the bullet coming. He found his mind drifting back to his earliest memory, of him seated in his mother’s lap as she counted to him in French. A year or so later he began to repeat her words, with her shrieking with excitement as he did so. She had taught him how to count, and he had forgotten.
“My son —” Eliza sobbed, grabbing his hand that lay across his chest.
“We played piano.” He smiled a bit as he remembered his ninth birthday.
“I taught you piano.” She affirmed, nodding solemnly as the memory filled her thoughts. Philip had come up to her that day, determined to write his father a poem to impress him. She insisted that, because a poem flowed much like music, she would teach him the scales on a piano and enable him to be inspired. But he had grown nervous when the time came to show Alexander, so she had created a beat using her mouth to remind him of her lesson, and he had performed the poem beautifully.
“You would put your hands on mine.” He glanced down at his hand in Eliza’s.
“You changed the melody every time.” She sniffled.
“I would always change the line.” He chuckled weakly, attempting to lighten the otherwise dark mood.
“Shh, I know, I know..” Eliza’s voice sounded hollow. Her son was dying, her baby. This isn’t fair. Mothers always die before sons, not the other way around. Her beautiful baby boy had barely even gotten to live.
“I would always change the line.” He whispered, his hazel eyes beginning to grow glassy.
“Shh, I know, I know,” She repeated, wanted her son to be as soothed as possible in his final moments. She began to count, “Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf.”
“Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf.” Philip repeated feebly, reaching up and rubbing circles on his mother’s cheek with his thumb.
“Good,” she sobbed, plastering a pained smile onto her face as her tears fell onto Philip’s face. “Un deus trois quatre cinq six sept —”
“Un deux trois..” Philip’s hand went limp as his voice faded and the darkness overcame him.
“Huit neuf,” Eliza had continued her counting but struggled to do so as she sobbed. “Sept huit neuf. Sept huit.”
An overwhelmed shriek escaped her lips as she hunched over her son’s unmoving figure, an unbearable pain in her chest. Her baby was gone. She felt Alexander’s hand on hers, but she ripped it away angrily and enveloped Philip’s limp hand in her own as she pressed kisses to it. Nothing he could do would make it better, nothing anyone could do would make any of this better.
Her Philip was dead.

salamandertoast:

“If they didn’t like his, they’re going to be furious with mine,” Miranda says. “I intend to represent a corner of London with my accent that has not yet been invented. I’m going to have the worst accent in the history of English accents—I’m going to sound like I’m from another planet.”

[x]

Día 11.- Rivales: Alexander Hamilton Vs Aaron BurrdeHamilton

After watching Hamilton on Disney+ I just had to sketch Alexander and Eliza A bit more shading to add to the coat and dress. I can’t get the songs out of my head