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classicalsqueak · 3 months

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Hello! I made this little zine called Music Theory: A Small Guide of Reminders.

These are shorthand notes, charts, and drawings that I used when I was studying music theory that I now teach my students, approached from the pianist’s perspective. From beginner to advanced, all compact to fit in a pocket or pencil case.

It is one page of notes in the front, with optional second side that includes manuscript paper and an extra keyboard.

This video includes a flip through, instructions on how to fold the guide, and explanations for all the notes: https://youtu.be/mUSc3k4z9qM

Links to download are in the description of the video :)

- For more videos: YouTube (classicalsqueak) / Video Index

For sheet music: Ko-fi (classicalsqueak) or SMP* (published by Ylan Chu)

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throwedgenji · 1 year

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FREESTYLE RAPPING WORDS FROM CHAT WITH BEAT BY MARPHY / RARE CADENCES

Live now on https://www.twitch.tv/throwedgenji

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modern-inheritance · 1 year

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Modern Inheritance: Cadence

(A/N: The cadence used here is the Helljumper cadence from Halo aka ‘helljumper, helljumper, where you been?’ I’ve never been able to figure out what goes down between Islanzadi and Arya after Arya gets back with Eragon and co., but I know that it would not be a ‘all is forgiven’ type thing. Islanzadi refuses to accept any responsibility and Arya is done giving a shit about what Izzy wants. So things aren’t all hunky-dory between them right off the bat.

Arya’s open to some reconciliation, but she has boundries and isn’t going to accept being talked down to or used as political fodder. Islanzadi needs to learn to talk to her daughter as equals, and sometimes a grumpy old man can help just by stating the obvious.)

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MODERN INHERITANCE: CADENCE

Islanzadí leaned her elbows on the knotted railing and stared out through the expanse of pines. It was still dark, the barest edge of light detectable to the east as dawn considered its approach. Despite the darkness, the queen could see everything clearly, down to the scatterings of bark below the massive trees and the needles that graced the forest floor.

She wasn’t usually up at this hour. Islanzadí preferred to rise with the sun and greet the day with warmth on her face, accompanied by a mug of tea and fresh toast. The occasional paperwork or reading that followed were much easier to greet that way.

Others, though, seemed to prefer this hour for waking. The voices were quiet but unmistakable, coming closer and bouncing through the trees before being absorbed by the mist that clung to the ground. One would call and the other would respond, a perfect two person cadence.

“Wolfcat, wolfcat, where you been?”

“Dash down through the hells and back again!”

Islanzadí couldn’t help but shake her head slightly, a little grin twitching the corners of her lips. They both had picked up so much over the years, becoming more human than elf in some respects. The smile fell when she remembered it used to be three voices, a twinge of near guilt remembering when it had been only one in the past months.

“When I die please bury me deep!”

“Put my B85 down by my feet!”

“Why the hell does she insist on doing this every bloody morning?” The queen looked over to find a haggard looking Brom trudging towards her, steaming mug of coffee in one hand and customary morning scowl on his face.

Islanzadí turned her nose up at the pungent smell of half burnt brew as Brom joined her at the railing and ignored the man’s slurp and quiet curse at the scalding liquid. “It’s your fault she’s like this.” The elf replied. Her tone was light, almost joking, but the edge was unmistakable. “You took my daughter and brought me back a soldier.”

Brom’s scowl deepened. “Majesty, with all due respect, don’t start with that till I’ve had three more of these and a good five hours of sunlight.” He risked another sip, tongue already burned.

“Don’t cry for me, don’t shed no tear!”

“Just pack my box with my PT gear!”

The line reminded Islanzadí of why she initially came out in the first place. “Has Arya had any physical therapy since she arrived back with the Varden?” Still far in the distance, Islanzadí tracked the two shadows jogging through the mist. “I saw some of her scars. Her movement must be restricted.”

Brom gave a negative grunt, peering into his mug. The steam was enough of a pick-me-up for now. “Ask her yourself. She’ll tell you.”

“We’re not…there yet.” The bark along the railing crackled as the queen tightened her grip. Brom was one of the few people that could be so curt with her without reprimand. He had earned as much over the years, and to be completely frank, Islanzadí preferred his blunt honesty in private over his polite respect in public. “She acts like nothing happened. But she still won’t talk to me.” She gave a hollow laugh. “We exchanged more than six sentences yesterday. That was the most we’ve said to each other all week.”

“She’s not the talk about feelings type.” Brom took another cautious sip and, finding that his brew had cooled to a bearable level, gulped down half the mug. “Have you tried hitting her?”

“Have I what?”

“One early morning ‘bout zero-five!”

“Ground will rumble, lightning in the sky!”

Brom gestured with his mug. “Sparring. Arya’s a bit more receptive when she’s fighting.” He shrugged. “Or you could just maybe…talk to her.”

Islanzadí massaged the bridge of her nose, frustration growing. “I just told you, I’ve tried, Brom.”

“Then stop trying. Talk to her like anyone else.” The Rider knocked back the rest of his coffee, grimacing at the acrid taste of grounds at the bottom. “Actually, don’t do that. That will make it worse. Talk to her like you talk to me.”

“How will that help?”

Brom leaned on the railing next to the queen. “She’s not as fragile as you think, Iz. She hates formality, and you’re trying too hard to fix everything in an instant.” He nodded out to the mists. “Let her go at her own pace, talk things out naturally. Don’t try to sit her down and talk about Gil’ead, or Fäolin, or the war, just…ask her what she’s been up to.” Brom suddenly chuckled. “Ask her what it was like trying to wrangle Eragon and Saphira in Tronjheim.”

“Don’t you worry, don’t come undone!”

“It’s just my ghost on a PT run!”

Arya and Glenwing emerged from the fog, jogging side by side. Their backpacks were laden with weights, muffled and wrapped in blankets, the burden an old equalizer from their time training alongside Varden recruits. With the cadence ended, both were letting out short, huffed breaths. It was evident they had been at this a while, sweat dripping down their necks.

Glen suddenly jabbed his commanding officer with his metal elbow. “I’m beating you this time!” He took off at a sprint, aiming for the two banner draped pines that heralded the edge of Ellesméra’s training fields.

“Oh, like hell you are!” Arya bolted after him, the scowl at her lips offset by the wild glee alight in her eyes.

Brom shook his head. “There they go.”

Islanzadí leaned over the railing to watch the end of the race. Glen looked to be a clear lock for victory, his bionic prosthetic and remaining arm pumping hard as he neared the finish line. Arya wasn’t all that far behind, and, with a yell, yanked the release straps on her pack. It dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. Free from its extra weight, Arya suddenly leapfrogged over the medic’s head with a quick “Alley-oop!”

Thrown off balance, Glenwing plowed face first into the dirt just inches away from the goal. His muffled, exasperated laughter floated on the mist to the balcony where Islanzadí and Brom watched them, Arya jogging in circles around her fallen friend with fists raised in victorious exaltation.

Islanzadí pushed back from the railing. The spectacle had shown a different side of Arya that the queen had yet to witness after all these years apart. Despite her experiences in war and the decades behind her, the elf was still young. She was barely out of the stage that her people considered her an elfling. Her eyes hadn’t lost that wild, brilliant fire, her face that bared-tooth, feral grin of life worth living and experiences, good or bad, worth having.

She was still, in a way, that barefoot, skinned kneed elfling scrambling around the branches of Tialdarí Hall. Sure, Arya and her mother had never been the type to chat easily, but there was a time when Islanzadí had known just how to approach her, how to casually ask about her daily adventures, that set the girl beaming and happily sharing all her latest stunts.

“Alright.” Islanzadí nodded, determined to try again. “I’ll talk to her.”

Brom rolled his eyes. He lifted his mug, feigning examining it while hiding his grin behind the ceramic. “Good. While you’re at it, tell her to stop asking me if I want to join them every morning.” The Rider turned and began trudging back to his quarters. “Four in the bloody morning…insane, the both of them.”