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mierdaseca96 · 11 months

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PONTEVEDRA

On October 16, 1941, the Pontevedra Football Club was founded thanks to the union of the two most important clubs of that time in the city, the Eiriña Football Club and the Alfonso XIII Football Club. Before said merger, the fans were divided between "alfonsistas" and "eiriñistas", thus decimating the forces of a small capital with little demographics. The Paseo de las Palmeras witnessed this historic agreement. Its first president was Fernando Ponte Conde. On December 28 of the same year, they made their official presentation facing Celta de Vigo at the Municipal Stadium in Pasarón. The match ended 3-3, and this was the first line-up in the team's history: Domínguez, Ruibal, Botones, Hermida, Calviño, "Masito", Ernesto, Pinocho, Foro, Corbacho, Besada and Iglesias.

Nino Mirón became president of Pontevedra at the beginning of the decade, and revived the club sportingly, which had been stuck in Second B for decades, without cold or heat. He qualified in 2002 for the Playoffs for promotion to the Second Division, in a group made up of Pontevedra himself, Real Madrid Castilla, RCD Espanyol B and Almería, who would end up ascending. The following year, they qualified for the playoffs again, and failed again in the league with CD Castellón, Barakaldo and Ciudad de Murcia, which would end up being promoted. It had been two years of emotions for the garnet fans, and although promotion had not been achieved, football was beating again in the city of Lérez. The 2003-04 season was faced as the definitive one to return to the silver category. After finishing first in the group, in the playoff they were drawn with CD Mirandés, CD Badajoz and Lorca Club de Fútbol. Mirandés would tie first in extremis in Pasarón, 2-2, to then win the garnets 0-2 in Badajoz. After drawing with Badajoz itself at home, on the fourth day of the playoff they traveled to Miranda de Ebro. If that game was won, promotion would be within reach, since it would only be necessary to win one of the two games against Lorca in the last two days In an intense match, in which there were even riots between fans, Pontevedra won 0-1 thanks to a goal by Cabrera Cava in the second half. There was one victory left in two games, and after being defeated in Lorca, they reached Pasarón on June 27 in a toss-up game: the winner would go up to the silver division. After arriving 0-0 at the break, in minute 57 Xaco would open the scoring after a blunder by goalkeeper Rafa Gómez. Then after a great header and a great counter, both plays culminated by Javi Rodríguez "El rifle", they would sentence the promotion, managing to recover the category 27 years later. The season in Second would not be easy. After an acceptable start, Pontevedra would reach the middle of the league completely evicted, more than 15 points from salvation, firing their coach, José Aurelio Gay, and signing Argibay, with whom the maroon team would try to turn the situation. After a spectacular second round, even beating Celta de Vigo in an exciting 3-1 derby, Pontevedra remains 3 points from salvation and is relegated.

CHARLES DIAS OLIVEIRA

He began his career in the lower categories of Santos F. C. and Tuna Luso Brasileira, before signing for the Portuguese C. D. Feirense in the 2001-02.4 season. There he played for three years, in which he won an II Divisão championship and the consequent promotion to the Second Division in the 2002-03 campaign.5 In the 2003-04 season he played thirty games and scored three goals in the second category of Portuguese football.6 In July 2004 his signing for Pontevedra C. F. was confirmed, 7 with which he made his debut in the Second Division of Spain. This event took place on August 28 in a 0-1 loss against Club Polideportivo Ejido; He replaced his teammate Manuel Canabal in the 75th minute and three minutes later he was sent off.8 In the 2004-05 season he played a total of thirty-three games in which he scored six goals, but Pontevedra was relegated to Second Division B. 9 He continued to be part of the Galician team in the bronze category for the next five years, in which he coincided with his cousins Igor and Yuri, who also played as forwards. He left the Galician club with 57 goals in 194 games. At the beginning of July 2010, it was announced that he would join Córdoba C.F. for the following two seasons.10 In his first campaign he scored a total of fifteen goals in the Second Division, including three braces against Rayo Vallecano de Madrid,11 Xerez C. D.12 and Albacete Balompié;13 while in the second he scored seven goals and played the promotion promotion to the First Division, in which Córdoba was defeated by Real Valladolid C. F.14

On July 31, 2020, after it became official that he would not continue in the armorer team, he returned to Pontevedra C. F.38

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bcdrawsandwrites · 3 years

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Fandom: Coco

Rating: K

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Héctor, Pepita, Pizzicato (original alebrije fancharacter)

Warnings: None

Description: It's Héctor's first Christmas Eve since his parents were forgotten. Though he tries to make the best of it, it's hard to ignore how much he misses both his parents and living family... and even harder when his alebrije seems to be absent as well. But little does he know that the alebrije has a very good reason for not immediately celebrating the holiday with him...

Beta Readers: @jaywings, RenGP

Notes: My gift for @hobbyartist01 for the Marigold Bridge server’s Secret Santa! This fic takes place between chapters 3 and 4 of my fanfic, Leatherwing, but if you haven’t read that, just know it takes place after Héctor’s death but before Ernesto’s, and after Héctor’s parents have been forgotten. (And also he has an alebrije here, of course.)

---~~~---

"I'm here!" Héctor called, stumbling into the apartment with a few baskets in his arms. "I've got it, don't worry!" Kicking the door shut behind him, he scrambled into the kitchen and crammed one of the baskets into a corner, covering it up with a few rags and kicking the garbage can in front of it. Immediately he spun around, glancing around anxiously, then heaved a sigh of relief when he didn't spot his bat alebrije in the room. Good—she hadn't seen.

"Busy out there," he said, casually setting his other basket down on the kitchen table and picking out a few items: a nice new candle, as well as a fancy paper poinsettia—they didn't have the real things here, of course, but it looked pretty enough. He set the plant in the living room, away from any candles. "Heh, I guess people are still doing las posadas even here, with their..."

He swallowed, the memory of little skeleton children hurrying down the street rapidly being replaced by that of his living daughter as she followed other children around the streets of Santa Cecilia. Even now he could still hear her own energetic singing, as she stumbled over the lyrics she was still learning.

Shaking his head, he searched the room for a match, finally finding one to light the new candle with, as well as a few others around the house. Their light warmed up the little apartment, and he felt warm, too, watching the way the shadows danced across the hand-carved nativity set, the poinsettia, and the other decorations he'd set out. "Lots of kids running around... it reminded me of home."

Héctor stared down into the flickering flame of the new candle, trying to force himself to keep his mind in the present. This was his home. It had been for several years now. No, Coco and Imelda and Ernesto weren't here, but... they were thinking about him, surely. Even though they had yet to put up his photo, surely this Nochebuena they were thinking about him.

Even though they seemed to forget—

It hit him like a train, and he covered his eyes, his throat straining as he held back tears. No, he was not going to cry on Nochebuena. Yes, everything was different now, and he wouldn't be celebrating with his parents this year, but he was going to enjoy himself, somehow. It's what they would have wanted.

Swallowing again, he hurried back into the kitchen, taking a few other items out of the basket: a small bag of candies and chocolates, and some carefully-wrapped tamales. They were still warm. "I, um, got some dinner," he went on. "Was never good with making tamales. My papá always did that. Imelda too. She... she always made the best—" He was doing it again.

Again he shook himself, glancing back into the living room and forcing a grin. "This is for me, though," he said, with deliberate loudness. "It's a shame I couldn't find you any..."

He paused.

Stepping back into the living room, he looked around, suddenly realizing he hadn't seen Pizzicato since he'd returned.

"Pizzicato?" he called, searching through the candle-lit apartment, hoping to find a midnight blue bat dancing among the shadows. But nothing was there, though his window remained open, letting in the chilly air.

It wasn't unusual for her to not be around—she did stick with him a lot of the time, but there were times she would fly off on her own. Likely to eat, he imagined. Though... she'd been there for him shortly after his father passed, and on his first Dia de Muertos without his parents, and on his death day...

Yet here he was, alone on Christmas Eve.

Swallowing back a tightness in his throat, he stepped up to the open window, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the December air.

Where could she be?

—~~~—

She was surely breaking a few rules, to begin with.

Not that Pizzicato was entirely familiar with alebrije rules and conduct, still being somewhat new to the profession herself. Her first several months had been a great deal of guesswork and instinct, and... it... it was still that. And so far it had been... going.

A shudder rippled down her segmented shell as she drew closer to the veil. She wasn't quite sure why, since it wasn't like this was the first time she'd done it before. She'd crossed it many times now in order to hunt, since hunting was not exactly a thing on this side of the veil, and her pup—her charge, Héctor—was only marginally successful at retrieving food.

That included retrieving food for himself.

Oh, she hoped this would work.

Shutting her eyes, she prepared herself for the jarring sensation of her body rapidly changing shape. In a few moments, she was suddenly half her size, and her protective shell was gone. But she could fly all the same, and so she did, flitting over the streets of her pup's home.

Normally nighttime was peaceful here, but now it was full of singing and chatter that interfered with her radar, making it harder to sense the delicate wing-beats of insects. There were many lanterns lit within the human-roosts below, bringing an unnatural brightness to the place. It was not unlike the other side of the veil in that respect, but here, her radar and sight were not nearly so good.

Swiveling her ears as she flew, she spotted a moth hovering toward one of the windows of a nearby roost, and snapped it up before it could hide away inside. The humans made these roosts unsafe to enter, or sometimes even to draw near.

Well... mostly unsafe.

Angling her flight to move farther into town, she spotted one roost in particular—that of her pup's colony. There was a great warmth within it, with many voices talking, and here she found the light and noise did not bother her so much. Swooping down into the territory, she spotted a bowl full of sweet liquid set upon a bench, and gratefully landed next to it, lapping it up with her long tongue.

"Oh, there's another one. See it there?"

She did not have to look up into the roost to know who was talking.

"Uh... sí, I see it."

That one was a voice Pizzicato was less familiar with, but she got the feeling she would be hearing it a lot more often if she kept up with these visits.

"Why do you want to attract... these things, anyway?"

Héctor's pup (who was, Pizzicato knew, of course not exactly a pup anymore) was quiet for a moment. "They remind me of dancing, the way they fly through the air," she said at last, and her voice grew quieter. "And... they remind me of someone else."

For a moment, Pizzicato's wings felt heavy, but she lifted them anyway, hopping back into the air and spreading them wide. She took a few skillful swoops through the air, eliciting a gasp of delight from the pup, and was about to leave the territory when something came flying at her.

Darting out of the way, she could see another animal landing on the ground before looking up at her: a house cat.

[You don't belong here,] the cat said plainly, flicking her tail.

"PEPITA!" the pup called. "Get back here!"

[I belong here more than you will ever know, ground-runner,] Pizzicato spat.

[Is that so?] Never turning her gaze away, Pepita began to lick her paw. [Why should you intrude upon my territory, then?]

[I have reasons.] Without another word, Pizzicato turned to leave, flitting away from her pup's territory, the heaviness of her wings making her fly closer to the earth than she normally would.

To her annoyance, the soft footfalls of the cat followed behind her. [Tell me these reasons.]

[They are not your concern, gata!] Pizzicato squeaked, swirling around to face her. The cat was still staring at her impassively. [You still walk this land and have yet to cross the veil!]

She had expected the cat to merely keep staring, but instead her slit pupils widened. [Spirit creature,] she purred. [If you speak true, then you are welcome here. Possibly. But if not...] She bowed herself forward, stretching out her paws before her and unsheathing her claws.

Pizzicato hovered there, contemplating the cat. [Would you... help me?]

Blinking slowly, Pepita sat upright again. [How?]

[I must... find something for my charge.]

[¿Sí? And who is your charge?]

Pizzicato hesitated. This cat must belong to her pup's colony... and she must know the reason the colony was avoiding him. If this was true, if she told her exactly who her charge was, there was a chance the cat would not want to help.

[He is...] Her ears flicked, and she momentarily dipped in her hover. [A member of a nearby colony. A familia.]

The cat stared at her, her tail flicking. [I see.] And finally she stood, stretching her legs. [I will help you, if you will not bother my familia.]

Her wings felt heavier. [B-bien. I will not bother them.]

[Tell me, murciélago, what you wish to find.]

—~~~—

The item had been a hassle to obtain, and even more of a pain to carry. Pizzicato could not do it herself in her current form, so Pepita had stayed with her, carrying it in her mouth as they traveled toward the veil. [You seem... protective of your familia,] Pizzicato commented.

[Indeed.] Pepita did not look at her as she walked. [I came to them because they fed me, but I stayed because they were hurting. I love them, and wish to ease their pain.]

The thought of her pup's colony being in pain left her with a great ache within. [Why are they hurting?]

[There is a deep pain within them that causes my Imelda to weep into my fur, and her kitten to stay up long into the night.] Her gaze hardened. [My Imelda's mate left her many years ago. Their kitten falsely believes he will return... and my Imelda tries to forget him.]

Pizzicato dropped in her flight, but caught herself before she hit the ground, flitting back into the air. An invisible weight threatened to pull her down again.

[¿Murciélago?]

[I-I am fine, gata,] Pizzicato stammered. [We are at the veil.]

The two stood and flew respectively where the dead lay buried, where an unseen veil stood between the worlds. Pepita lowered her head, dropping the item to the ground, and Pizzicato struggled to lift it in her feet.

Pepita's yellow eyes seemed brighter here, as she stared at the spot unseen by humans, but which spirits and animals were more sensitive to. [Are you able to go further?]

[Sí. My spirit form will grant me strength.]

[Then I wish you luck with your charge.]

[And you with your familia.]

With that, the two animals parted ways, Pepita returning to her colony, and Pizzicato yanking her prize through the veil. While her larger wings and body did give her strength, she still felt as though a sense of mourning would pull her into the depths of oblivion below.

But she could not focus on that now. It was Nochebuena, and her pup was waiting for her.

—~~~—

The candles had been burning for an hour or so now, and Héctor's food sat nearly-untouched on the table—one tamale with only a few bites taken, and another still wrapped. He felt less hungry than he'd expected, and the food from the market was not comparable to what could be eaten in the living world... or even to what his parents used to prepare here.

With a strange mix of reverence and numbness, he placed the wooden carving of Baby Jesus, sleeping in a manger, in the center of the Nativity scene. The whole set was quite lovely all together, but it didn't feel the same without his mother or father there to appreciate it with him, or without Imelda and Coco.

He bit into one of the chocolates he'd purchased, finding it bitter. Whether it was the food itself or the way he felt, he wasn't sure, and he sank down into the couch, closing his eyes and wishing the night were over.

Until something fluttered noisily into the apartment.

Héctor opened his eyes, startled by the flickering lights and shadows from the candle flames, and was able to spot a familiar creature zipping into the room. "Pizzicato?" he breathed, happy at first until his chest tightened, and his lips pulled back into a snarl. "Where have you been?! I thought I would be alone here, on Nochebuena, and you—"

Something smacked him in the face.

Flailing, Héctor nearly knocked over a candle, which Pizzicato frantically put out with a few strong wing-beats. He sat upright, grabbing the object that had struck him and holding it out in front of him, confused to find a... paper bag. "¿Qué...?" he muttered, opening it, only to be immediately struck with a familiar spicy scent. "This is...?!"

Pizzicato fluttered in front of his face, her expression seeming hopeful.

"Chapulines?!" he cried, reaching into the bag and pulling out a few of the fried crickets. "Th-this is... for me?"

Peep!

"G-gracias..." Héctor tossed two of them into his mouth, his mind instantly yanking him back to Santa Cecilia, during the times when Imelda and Ernesto and his parents had surprised him with them on a number of occasions. Before he realized it, he felt tears trickling down his cheekbones, and gave a quiet laugh, scrubbing at his face. "Ah, I said I wouldn't cry on Nochebuena..."

Pizzicato fluttered closer to him, licking his face, and he laughed again, shoving her aside.

"¡Basta!" he said, rising from his seat and hurrying in the kitchen. He tried to put on a serious demeanor, struggling to hide his smile. "What a shame you got something for me, heh, and I don't have anything for you." He set the bag upon the table, raising a brow at the alebrije that fluttered in front of him.

She only cocked her head, looking at him in confusion.

Unable to keep up the act, Héctor broke into a grin, hurrying to the corner of the kitchen where he'd covered up the second basket he'd come home with. "Bah, I can't keep it from you. Here!" Uncovering the basket and lifting it up, he presented it to the alebrije. "¡Feliz Nochebuena!"

Within the basket was a small collection of fresh fruit: a few apples, a couple bananas, and an orange.

Immediately Pizzicato let out a piercing but happy squeak, looping through the air and coming to a rest atop Héctor's head. In response, he peeled one of the bananas, holding it up and laughing as she eagerly bit into it. Finding his own appetite starting to return, Héctor grabbed a few more chapulines for himself.

A short while later, Héctor closed the window and sat within the living room once more, surrounded by candlelight and Christmas decorations. The scene, which had felt so cold and lonely not long ago, now felt warm and comforting again, particularly now that he had a friendly bat nestled against his shoulder. Even so, it did not fully rid the ache in his chest.

"I... I still miss them," he muttered, his thoughts trailing from the scene for just a moment. Pizzicato looked up in concern, but he smiled at her. "But I know... it'll be different, someday. Until then, I'm glad to still have you," he went on, and gently stroked her armadillo-like shell. "Feliz Nochebuena, Pizzicato."

The bat gave a soft peep, not quite as energetically as earlier, licking his face before settling against his shoulder again.

It wasn't the same as spending the holiday with his family... but it was good enough for now.

Because one day, far in the future, he would see them again.

#hector rivera #pepita #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #my dumb fancharacters #fanfic #my art #my writing #(pizzicato is obviously NOT that big compared to Pepita XD;;)#(just did that for composition reasons)

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hectorisagoodboy · 4 years

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Hello! I really really love your art!! They are all amazingly wonderful and i just LOVE!!! Thanks for inspiring me to draw Hector and more Coco stuffs! qwq Keep being awesome uwu

Hola! <3 <3 <3 Thank you very much! <3 <3 <3

I'm so happy for this! :-D

I love seeing as many fan art as possible on these characters!

Guys! I’m sorry but this time there will be a delay with the comic pages! I want to wait for donations to be able to continue... I still have to do the second and the third part, before the final part, So there are still many pages to do! (and now you also know why I waited so long before making these stories that I had written ...)

But first I think I’ll publish the drawings that I had made for the comic... I have to fix them for the new Headcanon on Hector's broken rib (so sad things ...), I will also use them to answer an old ask... Oh... And for the occasion I go back to drawing Ernesto...

I remind you that after this comic story I will make another one with Hector and Ernesto as protagonists! So I still have a great deal of ideas for this fandom! <3

Sorry again if for now I only draw on commission or on donations, but as long as my working condition doesn’t improve , I’ll have to look for profit only via internet.... -_-

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lilahdesignforperformance · 4 years

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PRECEDENT WORKS

Precedent works related to current performance proposal 1/5

The Mending Project - Lee Mingwei

The Mending Project is an interactive conceptual installation in which they use very simple elements—thread, colour, sewing—as points of departure for gaining insights into the relationships among self, other, and immediate surroundings. It also constitutes an act of sharing between Lee Mingwei and a stranger.

Visitors initially see a long table, two chairs and a wall of colourful cone-shaped spools of thread. During gallery hours, Lee is seated at that table, to which visitors could bring various damaged textile articles, choose the colour of thread they wish, and watch as he mends the article. The mended article, with thread ends still attached, is then placed on the table along with previously mended items. Owners return to the gallery to collect their mended articles on the last day of the exhibition.

The act of mending takes on emotional value as well, depending on how personal the damaged item is, e.g., a favourite shirt vs. an old but little-used tablecloth. This emotional mending is marked by the use of thread which is not the colour of the fabric around it, and often colourfully at odds with that fabric, as though to commemorate the repair. Unlike a tailor, who will try to hide the fact that the fabric was once damaged, Lee Mingwei’s mending is done with the idea of celebrating the repair, as if to say, “something good was done here, a gift was given, this fabric is even better than before.”

Precedent works related to current performance proposal 2/5

Article 14.1 - Phuong Ngo

Amid the polarity of debate about Australia’s refugee policy, too rarely do we hear the voices of refugees themselves. In Article 14.1, artist Phuong Ngo gives voice to those who flee persecution, focussing on the experience of Vietnamese refugees seeking asylum in Australia, following the fall of Saigon. The title refers to Article 14.1 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which states: ‘Everyone has the right to seek and to enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.’

The artist’s own history is deeply rooted in the refugee experience, and he pays respect to this heritage by occupying the gallery for the ten-day duration of the exhibition, while subsisting on the same meagre supplies his family survived on in their journey. Phuong Ngo, seated at a small table at the front of the gallery, quietly folds small origami boats from ‘Hell Bank Notes’, a form of paper currency that is traditionally burnt as an offering to the dead. The audience are invited to remove their shoes and sit at one of eight red tables.

On each table a short video loops on a tablet, demonstrating the art of making the paper boats. Visitors are invited to fold their own boats while listening to recordings of refugees’ intensely personal stories of their journey to a new life in Australia. The origami boats will be burnt at a ceremony on May 11; the stories are moving and intimate. In one, we hear of a refugee, then 17 years old, who tried on twenty separate occasions to escape by boat. Only three times did he actually board, with his money usually stolen by scammers who then notified authorities of his attempt to flee, resulting in him being jailed. In another, we hear of a parent’s sleepless nights before deciding to make a dangerous journey with a five-year-old child.Sadly, we also hear the untold stories of those that didn’t make the journey.

The act of folding the small, paper boats creates a deep sense of communion with refugees’ stories as they are told. The artist has cleverly engaged the audience in this meditative act, busying the hands while the mind is focussed solely on these compelling tales of hope and loss. Much like how sharing a meal can allow difficult conversation to flow, involving the audience in this simple, shared act breaks down the barriers between the subject, the artwork and the viewer. Paradoxically, the mind is distracted so that the story may be heard. The design of the performance space also plays its role, with the red tables, stools and rugs channelling the warmth of community and family, universal themes in the refugee story.

Phuong Ngo has created a vital reminder that such rights do not apply to particular groups, countries or peoples as a whole, but to mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, who each have their own important story to tell. This performance seamlessly melds recorded narrative and performance into a compelling exploration of the refugee experience.

Precedent works related to current performance proposal 3/5

One Year Performance 1980-1981 (Time Clock Piece) - Tehching Hsieh

For one year, from 11 April 1980 through 11 April 1981, Tehching Hsieh punched a time clock every hour on the hour. Each time he punched the clock, he took a single picture of himself with a 16mm movie camera, which together yield a 6-minute film animation. He shaved his head before the piece, so his growing hair reflects the passage of time. Taiwanese-born performance artist subjected himself to an extraordinary ordeal of sleep deprivation in a relentless quest to investigate the nature of time and methodically observe time’s passing.

One Year Performance 1980-1981, which opened at Sydney’s Carriageworks on Tuesday, displays the documentary evidence of that work: 365 punch cards, 365 film strips, showing an increasingly long-haired and bleary-eyed Hsieh, the plain grey uniform he wore, a 16mm movie he made, compressing the year into six minutes, witness statements attesting to his strict routine and the time clock.

For Hsieh, Time Clock Piece — as the work documented in the Carriageworks installation is informally known — recalls the labours of Sisyphus, who, in Greek mythology, was forced to roll a rock repeatedly up a mountain, only to watch it fall down again. And while it may seem to convey a message about the tedium and conformity of industrial labour, he tells Guardian Australia he is “not a political artist, although people are at liberty to interpret my work from a political standpoint … I’m interested in the universal circumstances of human life”.

Time is the common thread running through the five one-year performances, all of which involved extreme physical and psychological challenges. For Cage Piece, Hsieh spent 12 months in near-solitary confinement in a cage he built in his studio, furnished only with a bed, a blanket, a sink and a pail, banned (by himself) from talking, reading, writing, listening to the radio or watching TV.

All have been intensely personal projects, probing questions of existence and the human condition. For Time Clock, Hsieh — who was an illegal immigrant during his first 14 years in the US, jumping ship in 1974 from an oil tanker in Philadelphia — set himself the task of never sleeping or leaving his studio for more than 59 minutes. “It was like being in limbo, just waiting for the next punch,” he recalls.

Shaving his head at the outset, and photographing himself each time he punched the clock, he missed just 133 clock-ins, mostly because of sleeping through, despite arming himself with an especially loud alarm clock. The single frames he shot with a movie camera later became the film, in which each day is compressed into one second.

Precedent works related to current performance proposal 4/5

While Nothing Happens - Ernesto Neto

Tubes of Lycra netting filled with spices hang from a glass ceiling in a soft sculpture called ‘While nothing Happens’ by Brazilian artist Ernesto Neto. The aromatic socks are suspended from the glass ceiling at the Macro Hall gallery in Rome, Italy. The interactive installation was designed to stir up memories of such things as travel and of one’s past. As visitors brush up against the spicy drops, some of which are only a few feet from the floor, the exotic fragrances mingle and fill the air.

Brazilian artist Ernesto Neto (Rio de Janiero, Brazil, 1964) He has adopted a new approach to the work, drawing on its visual appeal and alluring aromas, and making it a plastic place which, in its interaction with the gallery, offers visitors an intimate, meditative place to collect themselves. While Nothing Happens, is a fragrant, fluctuating installation suspended in the air and containing five ground, coloured spices: black pepper, cumin, cloves, ginger, and turmeric. Juxtaposing materials and spaces, colours and smells, Neto has created a work that calls on a viewer’s every sense, breaking down the distances between art and life, and creating “an art that unites and that helps us interact with others, showing us the limits, not as a wall but as a place of sensations, exchanges, and continuity.”

The piece was specially created for the macro hall in rome and forms a floating architecture as its hangs from the gallery’s glass roof. the piece hangs at its lowest one meter from the ground. ‘while nothing happens’ is made from a lycra netting which is filled with a variety of ground spices that form stalagmite like forms. the spices emit an aroma that is further enhanced by visitors interacting with the piece. the smell is designed to evoke memories as we interact with the sculpture.

Precedent works related to current performance proposal 5/5

Shrink - Lawrence Malstaf

The work of Lawrence Malstaf is situated on the borderline between the visual and the theatrical. He develops installation and performance art with a strong focus on movement, coincidence, order and chaos, and immersive sensorial rooms for individual visitors. He also creates larger mobile environments dealing with space and orientation, often using the visitor as a co-actor. His projects involve physics and technology as a point of departure or inspiration and as a means for activating installations. His work SHRINK consists of two large, transparent plastic sheets and a device that gradually sucks the air out from between them, leaving the body vacuum-packed and suspended. The transparent tube inserted between the two surfaces allows the person inside the installation to regulate the flow of air. As a result of the increasing pressure between the plastic sheets, the surface of the packed body gradually freezes into multiple micro-folds. For the duration of the performance the person inside moves slowly and changes positions.

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sweetiepie08 · 5 years

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Musician with the Poison Tears (Chapter 9)

Miguel Rivera’s been fascinated by the story of the legendary ghost, the Musician with Poison Tears, since he was a kid. He’s always wanted to know the full story behind the weeping specter that haunts the train station with its invisible guitar. Now 18, the travels to Mexico City to try to observe the ghost from afar and get some clues about its origin. Who knows? He might even get a song out of it.

This story is based on the art and ghost!au created by @melcecilia14. Go check out her artwork here, here, here, and here. It’s really awesome.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6.Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10. Epilogue.

Bonus.

Little Coco ran to Miguel as soon as he came in the door. He dropped his bags and swept her up in a hug. She squealed and laughed as he swung her around.

“Careful,” his mama said, dodging her daughter’s flying feet.

“I’m fine Mama,” Coco answered, her face still squished in her brother’s chest. He brain suddenly switched gears and she started squirming out of his arms. “Put me down! Put me down! I have to get my picture!”

Coco’s feet touched the floor and she bolted down the hall. Their parents wore amused smiles as they watched her go. “Welcome home, mi’jo,” his mother said, kissing him on the forehead.

His father pulled him in for a hug. “I can’t wait to hear all about your trip.”

Miguel smiled. His parents, it seemed, were back to normal. At the very least they weren’t angry with him anymore. He looked over at his aunts and uncle hugging Rosa and Abel and asking about their trip. At least they were trying to over the rapid-fire questions from Benny and Manny. Papa Franco was even in the mix. Only one person seemed to be missing.

“Where’s Abuelita?” Miguel asked.

His parents locked eyes and shared the same concerned expression. So, she’s still mad.

“She’s in the kitchen,” his mother finally offered.

Miguel thanked her, picked up his things, and made his way to the kitchen. There, he found her sitting at the table with a cup of tea. “Abuelita, look who’s back,” he said as he entered the room.

She barely glanced up at him then went back to her tea.

“Abuelo Roberto said he’s been working on his poker game, so you better watch out next Christmas.”

She ignored him still.

“Abuelita, can you please say something?” Miguel sat down next to her and rested his guitar case by the table leg.

Abuelita glared pointedly at it, stood up, and left the room without a single word to Miguel.

Defeated, Miguel slinked off to his room. He parked his suitcase by the door and rested the guitar case on the bed. Now what? He sunk down onto the bed with his guitar. The rest of his family didn’t seem to be angry anymore, though they did seem to be a little nervous about the topic of music. He saw them glancing at his guitar, like he was carrying a bomb or something. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t like he had a drug problem or was getting into fights. All he wanted was to be a musician, but his abuelita seemed ready to disown him just for that.

And what was the problem, anyway? In this day and age? Sure, back when his great-great grandfather left, it was harder to stay in touch. But now? He had all sorts of ways to contact them and he could travel much faster. It wasn’t like the old days. He wouldn’t end up like his great-great grandfather. Why couldn’t they see that?

“Mama Coco, what do I do?” he said to the picture on the dresser. “They don’t trust me. They think if I leave, if I try to become a musician I’ll never come back, but I know I will. You know I will. I remember, you used to sing to me in secret. You loved music too. You would have wanted this for me. How do I convince abuelita that this is what’s right for me? How do I get her to trust me again?” He let out a heavy sign and slunk down onto the floor. “I wish you were still here.”

He let his forehead thunk against the dresser and felt something hit him on the top of his head. When he looked up, he found Mama Coco’s gift laying beside him on the floor. Maybe she is still here, he thought as he reached for the gift. Maybe she wants to tell me something.

He carefully undid the yellow ribbon and unwrapped the paper, making sure not to tear it. Pulling the paper away revealed a very old book. It was bound in brown leather. The pages grown yellow and brittle with age. He opened the cover. The first page contained a happy birthday message from Tio Oscar and Tio Filipe, Mama Coco’s uncles. Very small, on the bottom of the page, they wrote, “Our little secret. Don’t tell your Mama.” Was it a journal? A secret journal not even Mama Imelda knew about?

He opened to the first page, dated 1932. Reading on confirmed his suspicions. She wrote about her uncles giving her the journal in secret and in a typical teenage rambling, she went on about wishing her Mama gave her more freedom and privacy. She only wanted something all to herself, away from the prying eyes of her mother. She loved things she knew her mother would never approve of: music, and dancing, and her father.

The following pages were like stepping into a time machine and watching Mama Coco’s younger days play out. She wrote almost every day. She wrote about her friends, and wishing she didn’t have to lie to her mother whenever she went to the Plaza with them. She wrote about the sweet boy, Julio, who her friends were sure was taken with her. He shyly gave her a handful of wildflowers one day and she felt embarrassed and flattered and excited all at the same time. She wrote about sneaking out to go dancing with him and the massive fight she had with her mother on the day she got caught.

She also wrote about her father. She could still remember him, though her mother tried hard to make her forget. He used to dance with her, sing to her, and play for her. She could remember him playing a new song he wrote and asking her if she liked it, though she was barely more than a toddler at the time. More than that, she could remember how he used to hug her as tight as he could, how he made her laugh until she squealed, and how much Mama used to smile around him. He promised her he would never leave her for good, and he’d always come back. He loved her so much and she knew it even then, which was why she never believed he meant to disappear. If he didn’t come back, it was because something happened to him.

Once, she wrote about hearing an Ernesto De la Cruz song on the radio with her friends, and not being about to explain her sudden change in mood to them. An idea began to creep in the back of Miguel’s mind. No, it couldn’t be. He read on:

Gloria was the first to notice I was upset. I told her I was fine. Then Ana Maria and Alicia starting asking what was wrong. I kept saying I was fine but they wouldn’t let it go. Finally I told them I was worried about my Mama finding out I was listening to the radio and they just laughed and dropped it. They all know about her rules, the whole town does. It wasn’t like they’d believe the real reason anyway.

But I remember Tio Ernesto. He was Papa’s friend. He’d been to our house. He was there as far back as I can remember, at least until Papa disappeared. They’d call me a liar if I told them this, even worse, they’d call me crazy. Saying the biggest star in the world stole my Papa’s songs? Maybe even hurt him? No proof, no evidence, just a feeling? No one would believe me. Not even Mama believes me.

Miguel’s stomach slowly turned as he read this. The pieces came together in his mind. Could Mama Coco’s father, the one who left, be the ghost in the train station? Could he be Hector? No, it was too much of a coincidence. Of all the people in the world… Why can I talk to him, then? And Rosa and Abel? Why can we talk to him when no one else can? This couldn’t just be a coincidence. There had to be more to it.

He flipped through the pages, hoping to find something to confirm his newly-formed theory, when a folded-up piece of paper fell out from between the pages. It was just as old, if not older than the journal. He unfolded it to find a letter written to Coco. It contained lyrics to an Ernesto de la Cruz song, yeas before Ernesto himself sung it. It also had little drawings on the bottom and ended with “Love, Papa.”

His heart beat faster and he searched through the journal. More old letters fell out. Not all of them contained lyrics, but they all expressed his love for his daughter and promised he’d be back soon. The handwriting all matched. If someone were to match the handwriting on the letters to the handwriting in the original song book… All these years, the proof has been sitting in my house, on my dresser. But he didn’t think that was the reason Mama Coco gave him this gift. She didn’t care about her father being famous. She only wanted to share some happy memories, to show someone how she really felt, and maybe she just wanted someone to remember her father the way she remembered him.

We probably all would if it weren’t for Ernesto. If his hunch was correct, and the ghost Hector and his great-great grandfather were one and the same, then Ernesto is responsible for the heartache his family went through for generations. Hector was nothing like the man his family thought he was. He loved his family so much. All he wanted was to provide for them with his music. He tried so hard to go home to them. He was willing to give up fame for them and Ernesto killed him for that.

He turned to the very back of the book and noticed that the lining on the back cover was loose. He peeled back the corner and found a scrap of an old photograph. The untamed head of hair in the photo was strikingly familiar and it caused Miguel to pause. He reached in and slipped the photo out. Hector’s face grinned back at him.

He recognized the shape of the tear immediately. This was the missing piece from the picture of Mama Imelda and young Mama Coco. All these years, the truth about the family secret was right here in his room. Mama Coco’s papa, he hadn’t abandoned them at all. He was coming back. He was always going to come back. And now, his ghost was trapped in a train station, still trying to get home over a century later.

Photograph in hand, Miguel darted out of his room. “Rosa! Abel!”

His cousins met him in the hall.

“What?”

“Why are you yelling?”

“Look! Look at this!” Miguel held the photo out to them.

Rosa adjusted her glasses. “Is that Hector?”

“Where did you get this?” Abel asked.

“It was in Mama Coco’s gift,” Miguel explained. “She wrote a journal when she was a girl and she gave it to me. She wrote about a lot of things, but also about her papa. And there were letters; letters with Ernesto de la Cruz lyrics, dated way before those songs came out.”

“So Hector was the one who abandoned Mama Imelda?” Rosa asked.

“No, don’t you get it? He didn’t abandon them. He was trying to come home, but Ernesto de la Cruz murdered him. If it weren’t for Ernesto…”

That’s right, Ernesto. Ernesto was the one who murdered Hector all those years ago. If it weren’t for Ernesto, the music ban never would have happened. If it weren’t for Ernesto, Mama Coco wouldn’t have grown up without her father. If it weren’t for Ernesto, Hector wouldn’t have spent a hundred years alone.

Miguel’s face hardened. He balled up his fists and he stormed out of the house. His cousins chased after him.

“Miguel, where are you going?” Rosa said, following him out the door.

“The cemetery.”

“Why?” Abel asked. “What are you going to do at a cemetery?”

“I’m going to go yell at a dead guy.”

“What? Ernesto?”

“Yes, Ernesto! He murdered our great-great grandfather!”

“Miguel, come back,” Rosa shouted after him. “You look deranged.”

“I don’t care. He murdered Hector and got away with it. Hell, he profited off of it. It’s about time he faced some consequences.”

“And you think a famous ghost is going to care what some random guy has to say?” Abel put in.

“He might when he finds out I am. Or rather, who my great-great grandfather was.”

His cousins tried to get him to turn back as he marched his way to the cemetery, but they were unable to sway him. He led them all the way to Ernesto’s mausoleum. Momentum carried him lengths ahead of his cousins. By the time they caught up to him, he was already picking the lock.

“Do I want to know why you can pick a lock?” Rosa snapped in a whisper when she came up behind him.

“Relax, it was nothing bad,” Miguel answered. “Remember when Abuelita found my guitar and locked it in the shed until I found someone to sell it to?”

“But you didn’t sell it,” Abel said. “You told me you got a kid at school to pretend to buy it and give it back to you.”

“I did but I still had to practice in the meantime.”

The lock clicked open and Miguel swung the iron doors. He saw the portrait of Ernesto smirking at him from the wall and it sparked his anger again. “Come out you murdering psychopath!” Miguel shouted and he stormed into the mausoleum. “Where are you, you hack?! You song thief?!”

“Shut up,” Rosa snapped in a whisper. “Someone’s gonna call the cops and I don’t think they’ll buy your ‘this dead celebrity killed my ancestor’ excuse.”

“So we’re really doing this huh?” Abel said stepping inside, nervously fidgeting with his fingers. “We’re really provoking the ghost of a murderer?”

“Ha! You hear that!” Miguel whisper-shouted at the portrait. “Your legacy’s already going down. You’re going to be remembered as a fraud and a murderer. Not to mention the world’s worst friend.”

“I don’t think he cares how good a friend he was,” Abel pointed out, “you know, considering the murder and all…”

“Well, he does care about how he’s remembered.” He marched up to the portrait, fire burning in his eyes so hot, it stung even him. “You hear me, you liar! You thief! You murderer!” His voice echoed off the mausoleum walls. “You didn’t just steal a couple songs. You stole Mama Coco’s father from her. You stole a man from his family. You stole the life they could have had together and you let them think he left them on purpose. You killed your best friend and you caused my family pain for generations. It stops here. I am the great great grandson of Hector Rivera and I am proud of it. And I won’t let you steal from my family anymore!”

In response, A weak wind blew, maybe just strong enough to muss up some dust. A stray dog barked in the distance. A car drove down the road. He might have heard a small animal running in the grass outside. That was it.

He was here, his cousins were here, but no one else.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. It felt good in the moment. It felt good to get the words out and give Ernesto a long-overdue tirade. But he was still unfulfilled. Ernesto de la Cruz would never hear his words. He would never face justice for his crimes. He was gone, his legacy untouched. Meanwhile, Hector paid for one mistake with his life and a hundred years of loneliness.

“Hey cuz,” Abel said, coming up behind Miguel and putting his hands on his shoulder. “You get that out of your system?”

“He’s not here, Miguel,” Rosa added, her voice much softer now. “Ernesto de la Cruz is long gone. All that’s left of him is a pile of bones in a box.”

“In a big mausoleum,” Miguel spat, breaking away from his cousin. “He’s visited by thousands of people every year. Who even knows where Hector’s body is? It’s not right.”

“No, it’s not,” Rosa agreed. Miguel was surprised by how firm and series her voice suddenly became. “Ernesto de la Cruz murdered our great-great grandfather and never faced a single consequence. Hector died in the street alone while his murderer got to die rich and happy. It’s not right, but it’s the way things are.”

“To be fair, he probably didn’t die too happy,” Abel pointed out, “at least not in the last few seconds…you know…cause of the bell…” Abel used his hands to imitate the falling bell and made a crunching noise with mouth. “Wouldn’t have left a very pretty corpse, come to think of it. Probably looked nothing like that picture up there.”

Rosa looked over at him, eyebrows twisted with annoyance. “Can you stop?”

“It isn’t fair,” Miguel sighed, slumping down against a wall. “Hector’s been alone for so long. We’re his family. We should be able to do something for him.”

His cousins knelt down beside him and Rosa put her arm around his shoulders. Then, soft music disrupted the quiet of the cemetery. Miguel recognized the tune. He looked up at the guitar on the wall. The stings moved and vibrated seemingly all on their own. Without a player, the guitar plucked out a soothing, melodic rendition of Remember me.

“Is it Ernesto?” Abel whispered, staring up at the guitar in awe.

“No.” Miguel stood up and approached the guitar on the wall. It must be his. All these years… “I know this version. That’s not Ernesto. That is Hector.”

“Hector? How?”

“His invisible guitar. It’s not invisible at all.” His smile grew bigger. “It’s right here. He’s been playing this one.”

“So if that’s his guitar, maybe all we have to do is bring it back to him,” Abel suggested, beginning to smile himself. “Then he’ll be able to cross over.”

Rosa rolled her eyes. “Yeah that’s a good idea. Let’s steal the most famous guitar in Mexico and take it to a very public place. I’m sure that’ll work out great.”

Miguel though about it for a moment. It seemed logical. Hector was killed for his music. If they reunited him with his instrument, it could let him cross over to the afterlife. But it still didn’t fit. During all the time Miguel spent with Hector, never once did the ghost lament the loss of his guitar, not even after regaining his memories. This wasn’t part of his unfished business. In truth, Hector only longed for one thing.

“I don’t think that’s right. Hector can already play his guitar any time he wants. He doesn’t need to have it physically with him. Besides, it’s not what he really wants. All he ever wanted was to go home to his family.”

“So, for him to move on, we need to get him home,” Abel said.

“But he can’t leave the train station,” Rosa pointed out. “How are we supposed to get him back to Santa Cecilia?”

“Well, he wants to go home because that’s where his family is. Maybe if we bring family to him…”

“But we’re family,” Rosa said. “If that was true, he should have been able to cross over after meeting us.”

Miguel deflated, hoping leaking out of him. “I don’t know why.” He listened to the music playing from the guitar on the wall. It was home, Hector wasn’t. Hector, who only wanted to see his family again, who was more concerned about Miguel than himself, who didn’t want Miguel to make the same mistake he did… Hector wasn’t just a mysterious ancestor, torn out of his own legacy. He was Miguel’s friend, his family. I will help him. I will find a way to bring him home. “Hector can’t be trapped forever,” he said, his fists curled, resolve renewed. “We must be missing something.”

“Well, we don’t need to figure it out here,” Rosa said, putting her arm around him. “Let’s go home.”

Together, the cousins made their way home. Miguel barely made it in the door before Coco rushed him again.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, slamming her tiny fists on her hips. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Sorry, Coco.” He crouched down to her level with an apologetic smile. “We just went for a walk. That’s all.”

“Well, I drew you a picture.” She grabbed his hand and forcefully pulled him to the living room. She grabbed a piece of paper off the table and jammed it in his face.

Miguel took it. It was a drawing of a colorful bird. She must have used every color in the box. I saw a pretty bird today and it made me happy, he remembered. Would it help if I drew it for you? Tears brimmed on his eyes and he scooped Coco into a hug. “I love it, Coco. You were right. It did make me feel better.”

“I knew it would,” she said, hugging him back. “I just wanted you to come back.”

“Aw, Coco, I’ll always come back.” He hugged Coco tighter. Hector was right. He probably promised his Coco the same thing, but there was no guarantee. Miguel was going to be there for Coco as much as he could. He was going to watch her grow up, go to school, do whatever fabulous things she wanted ot do with her life… Hector may have lost the chance to be with his daughter, but Miguel wasn’t going to squander any chances to be with his sister.

If only I could give Hector more time with his Coco, Miguel thought as he cradled his baby sister in his arms. And just like that, he knew what to do. I can’t reunite Hector with his daughter, but maybe I can introduce him to his granddaughter.

#coco #coco fanfiction #coco fandom #ghost au #ghost hector #hector rivera #miguel rivera #rosa rivera #abel rivera #elena rivera #coco ghost au #sweetiepie writes #sweetiepie fanfic #sweetiepie08

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elclasico1jsp-blog · 4 years

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Genuine really hasn't won a LaLiga Clasico since Apr. 2, 2016

LaLiga goliaths Real Madrid and FC Barcelona could confront each other in the United States this mid year as a feature of the International Champions Cup, the Washington Post has detailed.

The El Clásico derby could happen at the Las Vegas Raiders' Allegiant Stadium or SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles, the future home of the Los Angeles Rams and Los Angeles Chargers. In the event that the game occurs, it would be the second time El Clasico 2020 that FC Barcelona and Real Madrid will have played each other on US soil. The harsh opponents additionally played at Miami's Hard Rock Stadium in 2017, likewise as a major aspect of the ICC. The ICC is ready to have a decreased organization in 2020 because of the nearness of an extended 24-group European Championship and the 12-group Copa America this late spring. It is likewise misty if the coronavirus is influencing coordinator Relevent Sports' arrangements for the competition in Asia this late spring.

A month ago, Relevent Sports proprietor Stephen Ross, who additionally possesses the Miami Dolphins and Hard Rock Stadium, allegedly met with the main European football clubs and Uefa to examine adding an increasingly serious component to the late spring soccer tournament.LaLiga possesses affirmed the date and energy for the 2020 El Clasico, and we would now be able to start to anticipate one of the most important conflicts between Real Madrid and Barcelona in years. On Sunday, March 1 at 3:00 p.m. ET, the two unceasing adversaries will take to the contribute at El Bernabéu Madrid with the alliance title on the line. It's a conflict of styles and ways of thinking with Real entering the match flaunting Spain's best guard and Barça lodging its best assault. Los Blancos have just yielded 13 objectives through 22 matches, which is a large portion of the sum that Barcelona has surrendered (26). While that protective slightness prompted the irregularity which cost Ernesto Valverde his activity, Barça still holds Spain's best assault with 52 objectives scored (Real is second best with 40).

Barcelona has returned to its pass-overwhelming, ownership situated ways under Quique Setién, however the side has still yielded objectives to Valencia, Levante and third level Ibiza as of late. Genuine Madrid, then again, has framed an https://elclasico2020.live apparently resistant protection with Thibaut Courtois, Federico Valverde and Ferland Mendy changing the group. "I don't have the foggiest idea whether the Bernabéu might ever want to see 1,000 passes," said Zidane as of late after Setién's Barça arrived at that detriment for Granada. "Each group has its own style. I played at the Bernabéu and what the fans need is to see the group give its hard and fast on the pitch."

Albeit Real's guard has been its foundation this crusade, the club is going to greet back Eden Hazard after the aggressor was sidelined for two months on account of a hairline break in his foot. The Blaugrana are less lucky as they'll be without Luis Suárez after the striker experienced knee medical procedure back in January. Just as the conspicuous conflict of styles, there's likewise a feeling of contrasting purposes of accentuation here. Genuine deservedly has a noteworthy lead at the highest point of the table and has just lost once all season. Subsequent to completing 17 focuses behind Barcelona in 2017-18 and 19 focuses back a year ago, Zidane has accentuated LaLiga this time around. That application was apparent when these sides met at the Camp Nou back on Dec. 18 of every a 0-0 draw.

For Barça, it's been a to some degree messy household crusade that is now yielded four draws and four annihilations (that is the same number of misfortunes as the last two seasons consolidated). In the wake of ceding in Europe the most recent two years, the club has made no mystery of its longing to organize a first European crown since 2015. In any case, El Clasico 2020 Live hasn't been this significant since the 2016-17 season, when the two groups met at the Bernabéu with Real holding a noteworthy lead at the highest point of the table. Barcelona dominated that game 3-2 to slice the lead to three focuses, however Real won every one of the six of its outstanding installations in transit its last LaLiga title.

Genuine really hasn't won a LaLiga Clasico since Apr. 2, 2016 — that is when Cristiano Ronaldo scored in the 85th moment to give Los Blancos each of the three focuses. From that point forward, Barcelona has dominated four matches and three have completed even. The record-breaking no holds barred record between the enemies in LaLiga is finely adjusted: Real Madrid has won 72, Barcelona has won 72 and 35 matches have been drawn. Barça has scored 288 objectives by and large contrasted with 286 without a doubt.

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ebbie28-blog · 5 years

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A Autobiography

His name is Ernesto B. Balaoing, a linguistic sixteen years old student living on Luna Street Poblacion I, Camiling, Tarlac . He is currently a grade 11 student of Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics (STEM) in a private school in his town and he is eager to learn and to be a nurse someday. His hobbies are drawing, playing sports, playing keyboard and watching anime. Also, he likes both to read manga books and to play the guitar for him to diminish his boredom and stress. Even though he is awful in solving math problems and cooking, he is known for being good in science and interacting with elders. His father is Eduardo N. Balaoing and his mother is Myra B. Balaoing, they are married on January 9,2001 and they are still for nineteen years. Ernesto and his brother, Edward B. Balaoing are both tall, have black hair and eyes, that is why their aunties and uncles are confused who is Ernesto and who is Edward because we look like twins.

When he was a child, he was fat and his father always brought him to the hospital because of his clumsiness or he is sick. He still remember when he was six years old, he stayed at the hospital for three months because of a serious illness. In addition to that, he frequently go to the clinic with his mother, because of hurting or damaging his ear when he is cleaning my ear. In addition, he often go to the clinic that his doctor remembers his name. Until now, he enjoy playing online games with his brother and taking pictures with his cousins. At the age of nine, he was grade 3 at that time when he started to improve his academics and became the second honor. The next year, his mother encourage him to join the rondalla club so that he can learn other things and to relieve his stress from academics. In addition, rondalla is an ensemble of string instrument originated in Medieval Spain, especially in Catalonia, Aragon, Murcia, and Valencia, it was later taken to Spanish America and the Philippines.

At the age of eleven, he joined the taekwondo club in his last year of being an elementary days which leads him to become the Athlete of the Year and to reach the Central Luzon Regional Athletic Association in Zambales. In addition, he was a yellow belt that time and he is lucky to have no opponent in district, municipal, and provincial meet. Being able to graduate is the most joyful and saddest thing in his life. However, it can also lead him to know other people and to have new friends.

Because he did not take his entrance exam in high school seriously, he was placed at the second section and that makes his parents disappointed. In addition, he was bullied in his first year of high school even if his classmates know that he was a taekwondo player. Moreover, he did regretful things like bullying others, as well as accusing someone but he learned and help others experiencing the same situation. The next year, he reached the first section of grade 8 and it is really enjoyable, even if his classmates gets a perfect score and he have a passing grade. Although there are some issue, he did not get a high grade, it is still fun, and his third year of high school became unforgettable. In addition, he still remember our trip in Capas, Tarlac in which he was 14 years old. He is embarrassed that he frequently puke on the bus. He also develop his confidence in this year as well as his speaking. In addition, he and his best friend have a big misunderstanding in that year that almost ruin their friendship, a few days later, they solved and become friends again.

At the age of fifteen, the last year of his high school days and it is when his section received few awards. Stress also became common as well as projects and activities, reporting is also limited. Their recreational activity in Caleruega, Batangas is also remarkable, even though they wake at 2 o’clock in the morning, some of them are still energetic, and after almost thirty minutes, they are all asleep. For almost eight hours, they arrive at Caleruega, Batangas at nine thirty in the morning and they wander for a few hours to take picture and after that, they sleep. As they woke up, they start to practice themselves for the practices of songs and responses for the mass and after that, we ate our dinner. The activities started at 9’clock pm and end at quarter to 12. They talk about their dreams and hobbies, they also reflect on what the priest is saying. After their activities, his classmates wander for a few minutes while others sleep. He wakes up almost 6 o’clock in the morning to clean his teeth and also to take a bath. He also pack his things and go to the meeting place, after that, he and his classmates walk to reach the church at top of the mountain and have their last activity which is the mass. After it ended, they go and cross a swinging bridge that connects second mountain in which they have their picture taking and then they go back. They pick up their bags from their meeting place then they go back to their bus. The also go to SM Pampanga in which it is where they have their snacks and bonding. Their call time is at 5 o’clock but delayed for thirty minutes because they waited for others to arrive. They got home at 9 o’clock in the afternoon because of traffic.

Now, he is a student who likes playing volleyball and online games. He is also trying to have a good grades and to have a good attitude. In addition, he lose some weight with the help of exercise and a balanced diet. The memories from his past became a lesson for him not just to be a good student but also as a good son and as a good person.

#EAPProject

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recentanimenews · 2 years

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takt op.Destiny English Dub Announced, Cast and Crew Revealed

We're thrilled to announce that an English dub of the dream-team collaboration between legendary studios MADHOUSE and MAPPA, the one and only takt op.Destiny, will be conducting its way into the Crunchyroll catalog on a weekly basis this SimulDub season, starting from April 23 at 3:30pm Pacific Time!

Here's who'll be facing the music in Episode 1:

Cast

Ernesto Jason Liebrecht (Zeke in Attack on Titan) as Takt

Emi Lo (Rena Higurashi: When They Cry - GOU) as Destiny

Alexis Tipton (Miko in Mieruko-chan) as Anna

Sara Ragsdale (Riko in Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid) as Jimmy

Mallorie Rodak (Nia in Date A Live) as Jimmy's Mother

Sarah Wiedenheft (Tohru in Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid) as Jimmy's Sister

Additional Voices: Sara Ragsdale, Caitlin Glass, Sarah Wiedenheft, Nazeeh Tarsha, Alex Mai, Kevin D. Thelwell, Shawn Gann, Jordan Dash Cruz, Jim Johnson

Crew

ADR Director: Caitlin Glass

Assistant ADR Director: Emi Lo

Lead ADR Engineer: Zachary Davis

Mix Engineer: Gino Palencia

ADR Script Writer: Eliza Harris (#1), Ben Phillips (#2-12)

Script Supervisor: Bonny Clinkenbeard

ADR Prep: Brandon Peters

RELATED: Crunchyroll Reveals SimulDub Lineup for Spring 2022, First SPY x FAMILY Cast Details

An original project by Oji Hiroi and LAM, takt op.Destiny is directed by Yuki Ito (GRANBLUE FANTASY: The Animation) at studios MADHOUSE and MAPPA, with series composition by Kiyoko Yoshimura (GARO -VANISHING LINE-) and character designs adapted for animation by Reiko Nagasawa (Boogiepop and Others key animator).

If you're a fan of urban fantasy anime, don't miss Episode 1 of takt op.Destiny's English dub when it drops on April 23 at 3:30pm Pacific Time, right here on Crunchyroll!

Music is the light that illuminates people's hearts-- and that "light" was suddenly taken from the world. The world changed the night the black "Kuroya Meteorite" fell. Grotesque monsters known as D2 emerged from the meteorite and began to overrun the land and people. As the D2 were drawn to melodies people played, eventually "music" itself became taboo. However, those who opposed the monsters appeared. They the "Musicart," girls who draw power from music. They possess the great operas and musical scores of humanity history and use them to defeat the D2.

Der shy man behind @Shymander, Liam is a timezone-fluid Aussie with a distinct fondness for anime, Eurovision and creating odd stats projects despite hating math.

By: Liam Dempsey

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

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rocksalive · 6 years

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not to say i’m not nuts abt the movie coco, bc i am, but i have some questions

1) how the FUCKING MOTHERFUCKING FUCK does tia victoria know how to operate a soundboard 2) how come having memories of “that bastard who left mama imelda on her own” passed down the riveras from ppl who knew hector in life doesn’t count for keeping him alive. does your name have to be in play or sth. do they have to know your face. is it bc part of the story they remembered him for was factually wrong? 3) what are the photo rules? does a really good drawing/painting work? how clear / in focus / big does ur face have to be? do u have to be looking directly at the camera, and if so do families know that? if the photo age and the age you show up as when dead are drastically different, does it still work? 4) i’ve seen a theory that the age in the ofrenda photo determines ur age in the land of the dead, which kinda makes sense, but then what happens if ur remembered but have no photo? does it just default to however old u were when u died? also what if ur photo at varying ages is on a bunch of ofrendas? does it avg out? is it decided by whichever family u were closest to? 5) how does ernesto get that fuckin hoard back from the ofrendas. does he have a staff of some kind to collect & carry them 6) related: how tf does the land of the dead’s economy work. ernesto employs security, but i guess they could just be really enthusiastic fans, and the agency employees could be altruistic volunteers? but then how come the almost-forgotten all live in shacks, and hector’s clothes get nicer when he’s remembered? is wealth somehow a direct consequence of rememberedness? how does that work as a currency? 7) how is it that on the morning of dotd, just mentioning “mama coco’s papa” has her asking if papa is coming home, therefore remembering him p easily, but less than 24 hours later she’s completely forgetting him? does she remember papa as a concept but not exactly hector as a person? is this the same problem as #2? what counts as being remembered? 8) does the curse kick in the moment miguel removes the guitar, or the moment he strums it? the strumming triggers the dramatics, but he stole it before then. if he’d run back to the plaza w/o strumming, would it just have kicked in whenever he played the first note? 9) “this day is to give to the dead, u stole from them” “a family curse needs a family blessing” -- is he cursed bc he stole from the dead or bc he violated the family ban on music? make up ur mind, allergy dude! or are all dotd-related crimes inherently family matters due to the nature of the holiday? 10) i understand the ofrenda setups are based in reality, but miguel’s “lemme leave a ton of lit candles unattended, for hours on end, on wooden surfaces covered in papers and flowers, in a wooden attic on top of my wooden house” is particularly objectionable from a fire safety standpoint 11) if i believed that my ability to see my family after i died depended on them having photos of me, i would make damn sure we had multiple photos and backups somewhere safe, and in the modern era (when coco takes place) i would sure as shit make copies of existing family photos. ESPECIALLY if the tradition required keeping these precious photos in close proximity to fire. why did no one take mama imelda’s photo to a damn kinko’s 12) hector’s hair seems to be more attached to his hat than his head. is this part of his general lack of cohesion or is all hair in the land of the dead wigs? 13) EXPLAIN THE GODDAMN SKELETAL POLO PONIES 14) how do you build anything. does someone thoughtfully leave out a bunch of tools and raw materials as offerings each year. does it just Appear. someone had to make that de la cruz statue 15) miguel named a street dog after the horse in a de la cruz film. this isn’t a question just what a fuckin nerd

this post inspired by my having watched coco 3 times in 4 days. thx for listening to my Ramblings guys

#personal #disney

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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 years

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Leatherwing Rating: K+ Genre: Angst, Friendship Characters: Héctor, original characters Warnings: Mentions of minor character death, BRIEF suicidal thoughts. Description: Not everyone has a spirit guide in the land of the dead; they only appear to those who truly need guidance, and who are willing to listen to that guidance once they understand. And many years ago, there was a time when Héctor met those qualifications. View all chapters here!

Chapter 3: Bite Summary: In which Héctor and his alebrije decide to start a new Dia de Muertos tradition.

“Mira, it’s just once a year—”

Peep!

“I know, but really, it’s just one day. One night, even!”

PEEP!

“Pizzicato!” Héctor cried, and the bat stopped her fluttering, though her feet were obstinately clinging to the handle of his guitar case. “I will play for you when we get back. Okay?”

Pizzicato opened her mouth, baring her teeth and making a distinctly displeased rattling noise.

For a moment Héctor felt like he was dealing with Coco when she was in one of her stubborn moods, and the thought immediately sent a pang through his chest, cementing his decision. Softening, he stooped down closer to the alebrije, who shut her mouth, but still glared. “I know you want me to play music for you now, but this… this is more important to me than anything. Do you understand?”

Pizzicato’s ear-wings folded back, and she dipped her head with a quiet whine. Finally she let go of the guitar case, flitting back into the air and over Héctor’s head.

Relieved, he got to his feet again, brushing off his pant legs to make sure they were still clean. He had to look his best, in case—when he crossed. “Good! Let’s go, then.” With a sharp whistle, he strode out the door and out of the apartment, Pizzicato casting one last glance at the guitar before dutifully following.

It wasn’t quite sunset yet, but the streets were already crowded, all manner of souls and alebrijes alike filling the streets with life (so to speak). The excitement was tangible as people carried baskets and even carts in the direction of the marigold bridges, while others rushed to the plazas and all the parties and concerts that would be held this night.

You’re sure you don’t want to join us? Juan had offered. I mean, it’s not like you get to cross any—

Héctor flinched, both at the words, and at the memory of Diego swiftly kicking Juan in the shin before he could finish. Offer is open, regardless, the band leader had said.

It wasn’t that they couldn’t cross—they just didn’t plan to spend the entire night on the other side. While some spent as much time as possible in the Land of the Living with their families, for others, the night was a simpler affair. And… well, there were a lot of souls out tonight, and a lot of money to be made with music.

But all the money in the world wouldn’t give Héctor what he wanted most right now.

“Oye, watch it!”

A hand pushed Héctor back, startling him out of his thoughts. On the street in front of him, right where he’d been about to put his foot, a snake alebrije hissed at him, its bright scales rapidly shifting colors as it shook its rattle. Its owner stooped down to scoop the snake up, and it slithered around the man’s shoulders before turning to glare at Héctor. “Uh—sorry, sorry,” Héctor said, forcing a smile as he stepped off to the side, closer to the sidewalk.

Pizzicato continued to flutter over his head, her buzz-flap a familiar, melodic rhythm.

“Good thing you don’t have to worry about that, eh?” he asked, grinning up at her. It was nice to have someone to talk to as he walked around town; occasionally it earned him looks, but he didn’t care. Honestly he could understand why, since he’d been a bit skeptical of spirit guides when he’d first come here.

Don’t worry, mijo, you get used to them! Sort of.

He says that because he’s still not used to the dragons.

Can anyone get used to dragons?!

Héctor’s heart clenched at the memory. This was the first Dia de Muertos he would spend without—

No, no, not again. He swallowed once, then again, trying to rid himself of the lump that was choking his throat. It would be a year in a few months, and yet even after all that time, the little things would still come back—little reminders that they were no longer there.

Peep!

Something soft settled against his head, and he sighed, idly reaching up to stroke Pizzicato’s shell. “Lo siento. I was thinking about them again,” he muttered. The bat gave a small whine in response. “They… had the same problem as me. Th-that is, when we got to the bridge, we couldn’t… um.” He shook himself bodily, no, no reason to think about that. “But I—I think they’ll—they would be proud of me, this time, when I make it.”

She didn’t respond, this time leaping off his head and fluttering back into the air.

“Hey! Just wait until you see my familia!” he said, swallowing down his anxiety as he looked back up at her. “My Coco would like you. I always told her how bats didn’t sing like birds do, but they dance in the air.”

Pizzicato gave a loud peep at that, weaving gracefully around the air up ahead of him. Some other skeletons even took notice, a few children pointing her out.

“Sí, just like that!” The crowds were getting denser now as they got closer to the Santa Cecilia gate, and he knew he would have a decent wait ahead of him. For a moment he frowned at the cluster of people ahead, but the colors of the bat were easily distracting. Shaking himself, he focused on her again. “I took her outside one night and we set out some sugar water, and sure enough, one came dancing through the sky. She loved it.”

Pizzicato did a loop-the-loop before fluttering back over to him, hooking herself onto the pouch on his belt.

“Maybe you can dance for her again, when we get there.”

Like before, she did not respond. It made something tug beneath his rib cage, but he ignored it, continuing to follow the crowd as they neared the gates. Perhaps she wasn’t making any noise because she didn’t know how to respond… or she didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. She’d understand, once they crossed.

And they would. This time, he was certain of it.

“Ah… no, sorry, señor.”

The tension in Héctor’s chest seemed to solidify into a weight that plummeted through his rib cage, nearly making him crash to the cobblestones beneath him. “Wh-what?” he stammered, running a hand through his wig. ”It’s—it can’t be, not again. You’re sure you’re looking at the right page?”

The attendant eyed him over her glasses before staring down at the thick book in front of her again. It was full of names, organized by surname, and had either copies of photos or sketches of tributes pasted onto each page. Under his name (or what probably wasn’t his name—probably some poor hombre who happened to share the same name and hometown as him), there was nothing. She turned the book around for him to see, only to yank it back when he tried to snatch it away from her.

“Wait—give me that! There’s got to be a mistake!” Héctor cried, reaching out for the book in vain. Pizzicato was chirping frantically above his head, but he ignored her. “Please, it’s been so long since I—he—he had to tell my wife at some point. He’s told her by now, hasn’t he? Sh-she has to know I’m gone, Coco misses me—”

The rational part of him that had been shoved into the far corners of his mind knew he was hysterical, unreasonable, that this person could do nothing for him. But that was not the part that was in control right now.

Later he would realize that the poor woman was very unsettled by his desperate behavior and was trying valiantly to hide it under a calm, professional mask. As it was, though, for now she was simply a barrier, and it didn’t help when she continued: “Señor, I’m sorry, but you cannot cross. Please step back or I will call security.”

In years prior, his parents would have quietly pulled him away by this point, but without them to talk sense into him, he had nothing to hold him back. Nothing, except for—

“OUCH!”

He’d made a reach for the book again, only for what felt like several sharp needles to stab into his hand. Pizzicato was biting down into him, and not letting go. “AGH! Stop, stop—”

“Señor, por favor, listen to your alebrije.”

He looked down at Pizzicato, and she stared back at him—not with anger, but with sorrow. Something caught in his throat, and without another word, he stumbled away from the gates. The alebrije let go, and flitted after him.

At some point he found himself sitting on a bench, not quite sure when he’d got there or how far he was from the gates to the bridge. His hand still stung, but it was nothing compared to the terrible feeling building in his chest that was quickly threatening to overwhelm him.

Once again, he was denied the chance of getting to see his living family—his Imelda and his Coco and even Ernesto. And now he didn’t even have family on this side to spend the night with.

The feeling in his rib cage bubbled up through his throat, and he covered his face against the sobs that shook him.

Pizzicato was at his side immediately, settling lightly against his cheekbone, her wings wrapped gingerly around his head and shoulder. Her little tongue tickled the side of his face—an apology and a comfort. No other soul approached them—someone weeping just outside the gates was not a sight people liked to dwell on.

Eventually Héctor pulled her away from his face, holding her out in front of him as he fought to regain his composure. “Why can’t I cross, Pizzicato…?” he mumbled, swallowing back another hiccup. “Don’t they know? Don’t they… m-miss me?”

We don’t know, his papá would have said. There’s no good in tearing yourself apart trying to understand.

They still love you, his mamá would have said. Why would they not?

The bat, however, was unable to provide input, only tilting her head and licking his hand gingerly where she’d bitten it before.

“If they love me, why d-don’t they just… put up my photo?” Drawing in a shaking breath, he reached into his pouch, finding a carefully-folded piece of paper—a portrait of himself, taken back when he’d still been on tour with Ernesto. He’d thought someone might find the photo on his person when they buried him. Unless he’d been buried with it, but that might not be the case, someone from the Department of Family Reunions had explained to him when he’d first died. You woke up in possession of what was on your person when you’d died, and later, received whatever you were buried with. Apparently he’d been buried in his mariachi suit, and with nothing else, since he never received anything from the department, even months and years after his death.

A quiet sniffing noise brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked to find Pizzicato examining his photo. “¿Muy guapo, eh?” he asked, smiling against his dried tears. “This was me when I was alive. I didn’t have many photos… just this one, and a… family portrait.” That would’ve been nice to see again… He wished he’d had a photo of his wife or daughter with him when he left. It would’ve been good to have now.

Peep.

He blinked, staring at his own photo for a moment. “…Only two photos,” he murmured. He’d discussed it with his parents before—the idea that maybe the photos had been lost somehow. They hadn’t been certain, but it would make sense, wouldn’t it? After all, why else wouldn’t they put up his photo if they knew he was gone? Though there should have been a tribute of some sort, at least, but… but maybe that didn’t count, since he did have a photo. That made sense, right?

Sitting upright, he brought the photo closer to his face while Pizzicato fluttered in his other hand. “What if… what if I could bring this photo over?” Héctor wondered aloud, rubbing his thumb over the worn paper. “Just crossing over once would be hard with those guards, but… but if I could bring my photo to them, and they could set it on the ofrenda, then I wouldn’t have to worry about it again!” Turning to the alebrije, he grinned down at her. “What do you think? Think it could work?”

Folding up her ear-wings, the bat gave a whine.

“I know, I know it’ll be hard, but… I have to do it. Just once! Then I don’t have to do it again, right?” Already he was standing up, and Pizzicato jumped out of his hand, flying up around his head again. With his other hand now free, Héctor rubbed the tear stains off of his face, feeling more confident. “We’ll just sneak past the guards and cross the bridge ourselves.”

Pizzicato didn’t look terribly confident about this, turning away from him and looking out toward the street, in the direction of one of the plazas.

“No, we’re not doing that right now.” Shaking his head, Héctor turned back toward the gates. “The bridge is only here one night a year. If we don’t do this now, we’ll have to wait another year, and—” He ran a hand through his hair.

Looking him up and down, the alebrije dipped in the air for a moment. (Was Héctor imagining things, or did she have a resigned look on her face?) But then she picked herself back up, flying toward the gates to Santa Cecilia with slow, even flaps.

With a lighter heart, Héctor followed the alebrije, feeling more encouraged than he’d felt in… well, over a year. This had to work—they had all night to make it work. Just get past the guards, run across the bridge, put up his photo, and return.

They could do this.

“You cannot do this.”

“No, no, you don’t understand!” Héctor struggled in the grasps of the security guards that dragged him away, Pizzicato frantically fluttering after him, occasionally diving at the guards. As it turned out, sneaking past the security was easier said than done. “I-I just needed to do it once! J-just one time!”

“This is for your own good, señor,” one guard said, waving a hand at Pizzicato when she got too close. “Trust us.”

“No, please…! Can’t you just—?!”

“Unless you want to fall straight through those flower petals and into the sea, no.”

“But I’m not forgotten! I’m remembered—they still—” Anger choked his voice as he struggled against the guards, but they only tightened their grip on him.

He was being dragged away from the gates, past the stares of onlookers, and to the Department of Family Reunions. Héctor remembered the place from when he’d first arrived here, and when he and his parents had come to ask why they couldn’t cross. Neither memories had been happy ones, and he couldn’t imagine this time would be any more joyful. Rather than being taken to one of the many desks in the open office, he was taken to a smaller room where a tired woman in a blue uniform sat. She looked up when they entered, straightening in her seat.

“This young man tried to sneak past security after harassing one of the attendants,” one of the guards explained, leading Héctor to a chair. They stood to either side of him, ready to act if he tried to bolt, and gestured for him to sit.

Héctor did not sit, at least, not until Pizzicato alighted on his shoulder and tugged on his collar. Sighing, he faced the woman—a “corrections officer,” a term he would soon be very, very familiar with—and folded his hands together pleadingly. “Por favor, señora, I don’t mean any trouble,” he said, dipping his head. “I just… I just need to see my family.”

The woman looked him up and down. “Your name, señor?”

“Héctor Rivera.”

Immediately standing, the corrections officer turned to a file cabinet behind her, leafing through the files in a drawer before pulling a thin one out. It only bore a few small notes in it, though one of the guards handed her another slip of paper. She set it next to the other papers and skimmed over them. “Hm. Nothing terrible, but this is not a good trend, Señor Rivera.”

Héctor blinked. “Ah… ¿que?”

“While you haven’t committed any offenses prior to this, you’ve been exhibiting increasingly desperate behavior every Dia de Muertos. We take note of this, señor, because it may lead to an individual doing something very foolish.”

“But I haven’t done anything!” Héctor cried, only to flinch at a short growl from Pizzicato. “Okay, okay, I did try to sneak by the guards, but… but only once! I only need to get through j-just once, then I can put my photo up.” He pulled the photo out of his pouch, holding it up to the officer.

Rather than giving him an understanding or even sympathetic look, she ran her hand down her face. “Señor Rivera, that is not how it works. The dead cannot interact with the living in any way, and cannot pass items to them.”

Oh. Sheepishly folding the photo, he returned it to his pocket. “Is… is it so wrong that I want to see my family?”

“Probably not, but it doesn’t change the fact that you will be physically unable to cross the bridge if you have no photo or tribute on the other side.” She shook her head, glancing over the papers one more time before shutting the folder. She then snatched a form, which she began to write on. “This is your first offense, so I’ll let you off with a warning for now.”

Héctor stared at the paper that was handed to him without reading it, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

“I recommend you not try this again. You are not the first, and those who have gone before you were a lot less lucky.”

“Less lucky…?”

“The guards did not reach them on time.” Sighing, the corrections officer looked him in the eyes, this time truly looking sympathetic. “For your own sake, señor, I recommend you try to enjoy the holiday on this side of the bridge, and not attempt a stunt like that again.”

Héctor nodded slowly, his gaze falling back down to the paper in his hand.

“You’re free to go, Señor Rivera. Feliz Dia de Muertos.”

“Gracias.”

Pizzicato hopped off Héctor’s shoulder as he slowly made his way out of the building. She chirped at him once or twice, but he ignored her as he walked down the street, away from the building, his mind working slowly over everything he’d heard at the corrections office. “Not the first,” he muttered quietly, gazing down at the warning notice he’d received.

Something clicked. He stopped suddenly, turning to look up at Pizzicato, and held the paper up toward her. “See this, Pizzicato?” he said, allowing her to sniff at the sheet. “Take a good look at it, amiga, because this is the last time you’ll see one of these!” With that, he crumpled up the paper, tossed it roughly to the ground, and stomped on it.

Pizzicato gave a surprised peep, fluttering backward for a moment before zipping in front of him again, ear-wings folded.

“They’re wrong about all of this,” he said, feeling his heart burn with a determination and energy he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “Others haven’t made it across without a photo, no, but I will. We will.” Holding out his hand, he waited for the bat to alight on it before holding her close. “We won’t be like the others, Pizzicato. We won’t get caught, or give up, or fail. My family’s out there waiting, and I’m not going to keep them long. I don’t care what the dumb officers said—we will cross that bridge.”

Pizzicato stared at him for a while, ears still folded back, her bright eyes conveying something that seemed a mix between concerned and conflicted. But finally she spread her wings, flapping them without flying, and gave a loud peep.

That was all the confirmation Héctor needed. “Glad to have someone on my side,” he said, stroking his free hand over her shell.

“You’re a good friend, Pizzicato.”

#hector rivera #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #leatherwing #fanfic #my writing #this is the last short chapter I think #next one is... significantly longer #the one after that is looking to be a decent length as well

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beckytailweaver · 6 years

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Coco thoughts lately

This is (mostly) in response to @anotherweepingwoman and This Post but also some other things in general I’ve been reading (and you will probably recognize it if you’ve read the same things). It’s separate here because I didn’t want to hijack other people or Great Wall of Text so badly again. XD I’ve tried to be coherent but this will likely drift around a lot! It’s a lot of thoughts all muddled into one space.

(Disclaimer: I only got to see Coco in theater once. For the rest I must resort to vid clips that may or may not decide to load on my slow internet, until I can buy the disc. It's a good exercise in my memory skills.)

Héctor is a liar, but oftentimes he's apologizing for his lies. When I go into my headcanon-framework for his background, these fibs that come out may be old habit from an orphaned childhood. If he was raised, say, in an orphanage by strict caretakers, it would have been to his advantage to know how to put on a good-little-boy face and say whatever was needed to divert attention or stay out of trouble. If he was more of a rangy little street rat type, then white lies would have been a stock part of his survival kit. I think this habit of evading the truth would have worn down a bit once he had a stable home with Imelda (and she would insist on teaching their daughter honesty), but after decades of desperation in the bottom of the afterlife he's definitely back to street rat mode.

Ernesto lies too, and we've seen where that went. I don't think Héctor has ever lied in such a way that was meant to harm anyone. Little fibs to his advantage, a disguise here or a sparkly promise there; never damaging gossip or deliberately hurtful untruths or a promise that could get someone killed. But he is a liar, and anyone who's known him long would know that. (This might also explain why Imelda seems so eager to believe he'd run off and never come home, whether or not Ernesto told her anything. Héctor is slippery and she knows it, but she'd dared to hope he would not be dishonest to her.)

Héctor acts his age, largely, I think because you are sort of frozen the moment you die: You get a skeletal representation of your body at the moment of death, with some decorative additions to give you individuality and mark who you are. Skeletal children don't grow, the old are forever elderly. While the visual/physical form of the body is bones, there has to be some kind of force to animate them, to process what goes on around them. Invisibly, I think, a sort of ghostly/energy echo of the body remains, and part of that is the echo of a brain (how else could they think and remember things?) which for Héctor is an imprint of a 21-year-old brain with its not-quite-complete neurological maturity. While he can learn and gain experiences, the structure of that brain is still going to process things in a 21-year-old way. Experience can shape his thinking and grant him wisdom, but at his root he's still young in personality. (Young people can be tired, cynical, and hopeless too.)

Héctor is a father, but he has never been a parent to a child older than 3-4. (Young parents grow with their first kids and learn things!) "Rubbing shoulders" with Miguel may just be the only way he knows how to interact with young boys older than his daughter was. He does seem to be comfortable around kids and isn't flustered by dealing with them, which makes me think he was around a lot of them growing up (orphanage?) or ended up being That Kid in their small town who is all the children's favorite bro. He is the fun, gentle sort of person that children flock to, so it's likely he would sing and play with the neighborhood kids even up into his marriage. He seems pretty active and playful himself (when not desperate or on the clock, but you still see flashes of it), despite the crippling of being Forgotten.

Miguel wasn't mimicking Héctor to mock him, but because he wanted to walk "like a skeleton" and his nearest, dearest example happened to have the Forgotten condition of loose bones and an awkward limp. Miguel will imitate his new cool big bro! But in this case, Héctor is so used to being mercilessly ridiculed for everything that he takes it poorly on reflex, without realizing (perhaps not until he stops and thinks about it later) that Miguel meant nothing bad by it. The shove in response isn't really that severe for the horseplay that young boys can get up to. (It wasn't a punch or a slap or a kick or a grab, which angry men are certainly capable of.) But it is reactive in a somewhat immature way, same as his snappish responses to the musicians later on.

He let out that grouchy "how come he didn't invite you?" comeback to Miguel in the rehearsal area, but Miguel wasn't hurt or upset by it. Kid didn't even blink. (It was a pretty legitimate question from Miguel, even!) But I think the subconscious drift into familial familiarity made it more like the kind of snark Miguel gets at home all the time and he doesn't even pause. It's Rivera snark, it just happens, nobody's really injured by it, on to the next subject. They may use it to cover up their soft spots, and they all know how to take it as well as dish it out. Miguel had the proper Rivera response as well: Let it go. He didn't keep digging in or teasing on this. He might react with disbelief to some of Héctor's statements about knowing a famous guy like De la Cruz, but that's because he's already recognized Héctor as a consummate embellisher and knows better than to believe every word from his mouth. He never uses the lack of party invitation as a weapon or even brings it up again.

Héctor's poor actions as an "adult and disciplinarian" after Poco Loco can be attributed to, yes, his mental youth, and also I think to those edges of desperation that crop up many, many times all night long. That desperation, knowing that tonight is probably his last, is a poor help to an already-impulsive young man's mind. It makes his Ready-Fire-Aim even worse. It short circuits a century's worth of wisdom and (after)life experience in favor of urgent, sometimes thoughtless rushing. Yes, he is very deeply concerned with himself and his photo right now; he can't help it. He's dying and he's desperate and he needs to do this now, and however much he likes Miguel this dumb kid is on a clock too and doesn't even know what's important here! Despite that he's usually a nice guy I definitely don't think Héctor is a total pushover in personality. That whole night prior to the cenote we're probably looking at the shortest his fuse has ever been. And he still manages to be in general kind and supportive to Miguel (who has been alternately delighting him and giving him hell all evening).

I have a somewhat different headcanon about Héctor watching Miguel's slow fading to bone over the course of the night. I think Miguel did discuss his time limit with Héctor during or just before the face painting early on, but initially Héctor is understandably more concerned with his own deadline. As he comes to know Miguel better, he cares more. But he also may forget now and then, in his own urgent situation, until a look over the kid's shoulder reminds him that two hourglasses are trickling down, not one. And he does care, potentially a great deal: "Your life literally depends on you winning!" He didn't even mention the photo until after, when the family thing came up.

Genuine Héctor...definitely makes numerous appearances through the night. Most of his performance-art is for guards and gatekeepers, wheedling to people he needs to get past who might cut him some slack. Héctor being all super extra nice to Miguel during the face paint and explanation is definitely performance. He does a lot of performance with the Shantytown Crew, putting on a happy-go-lucky face. His Frida impersonations are absolutely performance, quite deliberately so!

However, Genuine Héctor comes out surprisingly fast around Miguel. The kid worms his way into a position of camaraderie pretty darn quick. Perhaps this is due to Héctor's loneliness making him open to someone who could be a real friend, or maybe it's genetic similarity gently drawing them to trust more easily. Most of the Genuine Héctor moments are in Miguel's proximity, possibly not only because the kid is the other leading character of the film; a lot of his genuine moments aren't just in proximity to Miguel, but in response to him.

Genuine Héctor generally doesn't come with the overbearing grins, theatrical body actions, or higher, wheedly tone of voice. Genuine Héctor is in the casual questions, exasperated eye-rolls, short-tempered grumps, dramatic sighs, epic grouchface, snappy comebacks, freely teasing, warm encouragement, playful dance teaching, melancholy stillness, angry desperation, grieving rage, tearful hopelessness, clear relief. Those moments when Héctor is not keenly watching the people around him as targets he needs to con. (There's a difference in his gaze; keep your eye on it!)

Not all of his performance is negative or self-serving, either; sometimes it's just because a nervous kid needs a pick-me-up and Héctor can put on a smile for that.

Face painting scene—lots of performance, but some real warmth. Walking with Miguel, the shove—no performance, pure grumpy. Talking to Ceci—plenty of performance for deference, Ceci is a gatekeeper. Rehearsal studio—mostly genuine; no point in faking the musicians, they treat him like crap no matter what he does. Going down to Shantytown—performance, especially off the ledge! With Chicharron—started as performance, became genuine real fast. Trolley to the plaza—performance to get around truthtelling, but also to act encouraging. Waiting for a turn onstage—no performance until okayokayokay and he goes into another encouraging spiel.

Some of Héctor's best genuine moments are on the Poco Loco stage. Sure, he's performing, but that's genuine Héctor, not a performance. Not during the song. He's not watching the audience—he's watching Miguel. And then he's playing with him. There's no con in that music. That was all Héctor and Miguel having fun with each other.

Afterward, the argument...no performance. None. It's all very real exasperation and anger fueled by the same old desperation. The argument hurts both of them because it tastes like betrayal. ("I told you I needed to cross tonight!" "Well I told you it has to be De la Cruz!") They both pulled lies on each other (taste of your own medicine!) and ran face-first into a mirror. Shortsighted demands and lack of explanation, and the whole thing goes down the drain.

As a kind person, we never see Héctor use force to get across the bridge. He did not grab or physically coerce Miguel in any way to take his picture there; he used only words. Even when things came to a head and he was angrily trying to drag the kid back to his family, it was half-hearted at best (and no more than we've seen anyone in the Rivera family do with recalcitrant children) and Miguel slipped out of his grip in a heartbeat. (Maybe he's getting too weak to hold on; maybe Miguel is too heavy for him to drag without lifting.) I'd bet money that Héctor has never threatened physical injury or actively harmed anyone in his pursuit of crossing; that he's never used a weapon or taken anyone hostage to try to force his way across. I doubt such things would even occur to him! His entanglements with the crossing guards have all likely been evasions and brief tangles where he's trying to disengage. I'd wager that night that Ernesto is the first person he's actually attacked with intent to harm in a very, very long time—if ever.

One of the saddest things is how Héctor has been denied musical joy for so long. "Stupid musical fantasy" is mainly because his turned out to be. He's also lost perspective on this: To a child, these things are huge. Like, music is everything. Miguel has his family, but they're...in a way, background, they've always been there, and in his mind always will be. He doesn't want to leave them for music, he wants to find a way back to them with music on his own terms. Family should support you, but Riveras have made music into an all or nothing deal. (What would they have done, if the LoD journey hadn’t happened, if truth hadn't come out and Miguel refused to give up music? Would they have disowned him or otherwise banished him?)

Héctor likely had little or no family before the one he made for himself, and going back to them would not have meant giving up music altogether. I think at the point of their argument, Héctor failed to realize (or had not been informed of) the position Miguel is in. Héctor was giving up a fond dream of musical fame to go back to his small town family and find a local job he could do while continuing to play music for recreation and additional income. It's really not the same as Miguel going back to (or being forced by curse conditions) an existence centered around a shoemaking family defined by its enforced silencing of music. In that sense, Héctor was giving up fame and money (Ernesto's priorities), not music; Miguel would be losing music entirely, for the fame and money afforded by the Rivera shoe reputation.

It puts a different spin on their respective stories to think of it that way. They both love their families and giving them up permanently isn't even part of the equation. The real culprits/sacrifices here are wealth/reputation and music. And before we get into "But Héctor left his family!" let's just pause: Héctor did not abandon his family, he went on a business trip! He fully intended to return, and the fact that he didn't—sooner or later—is entirely due to Ernesto's choices. It's incredibly sad that Ernesto decided to kill him, and equally as sad that Imelda was so eager/willing to believe that he would abandon them. Poor guy just can't catch a break at any point in his life (or afterlife).

As a somewhat related postscript: I think it's a bit funny that people like to bring this up, since "Go for your dreams!" is a big motif in modern (especially American) society. We're pretty much expected to leave our families behind to achieve what we want. Big education, big job, big house, the spouse we desire, the city we want to live in, the generation gap we can't abide...basically the whole point (so far as I was told) is to grow up, move out, leave the old folks behind (call a few times a year, and visit on some holidays), and achieve our dreams no matter what.

What Héctor was doing—going on a business trip for a job or potential job—is absolutely nothing unusual to what goes on every day: People with spouses and children temporarily leave them to go on business trips, they go on military tour, they go on band/performance tours, they commute or move to another city for half the year for work...and this is considered normal. Not ideal, but pretty normal. (Even when Héctor was alive, people would at times have to go far away to make money to send to their families.) Maybe it wasn't favored in Héctor's time either, but I find it rather ironic that people give him hell over it now!

#rambled on way too long with this #so there's a cut to save your dash #random coco thoughts because #And maybe just a LITTLE social commentary #I apologize for that #And I'll get back to writing fic now #well mostly #I hope #coco spoilers #coco headcanon #coco analysis

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sweetiepie08 · 6 years

Text

Long Road to Forgiveness (Chapter 1)

Another story originally posted on FF.net.

Ninety six years is a long time to hold a grudge. Imelda carried her anger into the after-life and never thought she'd let go. He left her. He made her raise her daughter on her own. And worst of all, he forced Coco to grow up without her beloved Papa. No matter how much he begged, no matter what his excuse was, she would never forgive him.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7.

It was supposed to be six months. He promised her. Six months to get his and Ernesto's names out there and he'd be back home. "I'll be back before you even know it! I'll send any money I make. I'll write so often, you'll get sick of me! You know how you say I talk too much? It'll be just like that except with letters! It'll be like I'm right here chewing your ear off as usual." That was what he said to her. She remembered biting her lip to keep the corners of her mouth from creeping upwards. "With our talent and our stunning good looks, we're sure to make it big," he said, flashing that goofy grin that disarmed her so many times before. "You and Coco deserve the best, and I want to give it to you, mi amore."

She refused to give him her blessing. She shut him out for days before he left. Why should she talk to him? He knew perfectly well how she felt. He should be down on his knees begging her forgiveness for even considering it. At some points he was. He put on his comedic, dramatic flair, clutched her skirts, and begged her to say something to him. His antics made Coco giggle. It was a performance. He was always performing, even when it was just her. Why did he insist on putting on a show no matter what he was doing? Why couldn't he just say something sincere?

On the day he left, he finally did. Or rather, he sang it.

Coco didn't want him to go either. She took one look at his bags and ran crying into her room. He tried for hours to coax her out. He sat outside her door, talking to her, trying to make her laugh, and playing softly on his guitar. He refused to budge, no matter how much impatient blustering Ernesto blew his way. He wasn't going to leave without saying goodbye to his little girl.

"Coco, I wrote a new song just for you," he coo-ed through the door. "It'll be our special song. I'll only play it for you. But you have to let me in. I want you to sing it with me." She opened the door a crack and ran back to her bed. He let himself in the rest of the way. He began to play, and Imelda took her place just outside of the door.

"Remember me, though I have to say goodbye,"

"Remember me, don't let it make you cry…"

She looked in. Coco hid under the covers, but peaked out just enough to watch her Papa. He played it no less than five times. On the second time, she came out from under the covers. On the third, she stopped crying. On the fourth, she smiled through the tears drying on her cheeks. And on the fifth, she sang along. She reached out and held her Papa's face.

Hector put aside the guitar and scooped his daughter up in his arms. "I love you, Coco," he said gently to her. "I want you to always know that. Everything I do, it's to take care of you. I know you can't understand now, but Papa has to go to make a better life for you. You won't miss me. I'll send you so many letters, you'll have to build a whole other room for them." He pecked her on the cheek and she laughed. "I'll be back before your next birthday, mi vida."

Coco grabbed his face again and did a perfect imitation of Imelda's stern-face. "Promise," she demanded.

"I promise," he said, smiling.

She pulled his face in closer and looked him deep in the eyes. "Double promise."

"I double promise, triple promise, a hundred times promise," he declared.

Coco gave him a satisfied nod and hugged him around the neck. Hector smiled tenderly and returned the hug. "I'll sing my song every night for you, mi vida. I hope you'll be my duet partner." He kissed her on the forehead, and his eyes went to Imelda, who now stood in the doorway. He walked over to her and placed Coco in her arms. "I promise the same to you, mi amore," he said. He reached out and wiped the tears off her cheeks while his own eyes began glistening. "When Coco turns five, I'll be right here. A hundred times, I promise." He moved in to kiss her, but she turned her head. She didn't let his heartbroken expression sway her. If he didn't want to upset them, he wouldn't leave them.

He lingered a moment, then moved away from her. She closed her eyes. She refused to watch him walk out the door. She listened to him shuffle across the room and pick up his bags. She listened as he opened the door and Ernesto complained about how long he'd been waiting. Finally she listened as Hector shut the door for the last time.

[-]

He was supposed to be gone for six months, and for the first five, it was just like he said. They got letters nearly every day, to the point that Imelda worried he might be spending too much on postage. "He'd better not be skipping meals just to send us these letters," she found herself mumbling one day while picking up the mail. She couldn't help but smirk and roll her eyes. Even miles away he still found ways to bug her.

A new letter from Papa was like Christmas every day for Coco. She'd learned to recognize her Papa's handwriting and would squeal with delight when she found his envelopes. "Open it now, Mama!" she begged. "Read it! Read it!"

"In a minute, quierda."

"No, now! It's from Papa!"

Imelda knew she'd get no peace until she opened the letter. She'd sit down with Coco in her lap, set aside the money he'd sent, and read the letter. He wrote the same way he talked. His sentences were full of charm, wit, and personality. They felt his emotions in every word whether he was excited, proud, exhausted, or homesick. He also included poems which Imelda was sure he was turning into songs. They could be silly,or heartfelt, or downright beautiful. She wished he'd included the sheet music for them. She would have liked to sing them for Coco.

As soon as the letter was finished, Coco would drag Imelda over to the table so that they could write their letter. The first page belonged to Coco. Coco would dictate whatever she wanted to say and Imelda would write that down. She then let Coco draw a picture on the bottom while she got started on her own letter. The first few times, she was very cold and only delivered basic news in the most detached way possible. She was still mad and wanted him to know. But, as the weeks went by and he proved his promises of writing often weren't an exaggeration, she began to soften toward him and her writing reflected that.

But then, promises began to get broken. He promised her six months and toward then end of that six months he tells her he'll be a bit longer. "Ernesto and I were invited to do a few more shows here. It'll push back our schedule by about a week, but I'll still be home soon." A few more shows turned into a few more cities. And a few more cities turned into a few more months. Still, he promised, by Coco's birthday, he'd be there.

His letters grew less frequent and his tone grew more exhausted. This gave her hope that he'd finally run out of steam and come home. But then, one day, the letters stopped. Coco was the first to notice. His letters went down to 2 a week at this point. A sparse number compared to the abundance they received at the beginning. They went a whole week without a letter and Coco asked every day, "Where's Papa's letter? When's he coming home?" Imelda's heart hurt all the time. At first, she was afraid for him. What could have happened to him that prevented him from writing? She imagined the worst; that Hector and Ernesto were robbed and lying dead in a ditch somewhere. She went to the De la Cruz family and asked if they heard anything. Ernesto only wrote about once a month, but it just so happened that they got a letter just a few days ago. No mention of Hector.

Fear turned to anger. If Ernesto was okay, then where was Hector? She wrote to Ernesto. No reply. She tried again and again. She decided that if she wanted to find her husband, she was going to be as relentlessly obnoxious as her husband. Still, she never got a reply.

Then came the most grievous crime. It was Coco's fifth birthday, and there was no sign of Hector. Coco spent it in tears, crying herself into fits of hiccups. "Where is Papa?" she'd say when she could catch her breath. "He promised. He promised. A hundred times." She finally cried herself into exhaustion and Imelda put her to bed, gifts unopened and cake uneaten.

Imelda's heart hardened toward Hector that day. Her anger festered as she stared at cold, empty space in bed beside her and listened to Coco work herself into another crying fit in the next room. You'd better be dead, Hector, she thought. If not, I'll kill you myself. She brought Coco into their room and laid her down on Hector's side of the bed. No more tears, she told herself as she soothed her daughter back to sleep. No more wasting time. If it's just going to be the two of us, I'm going to build the best life possible for the two of us.

#coco #pixar coco #coco fanfiction #coco fandom #imelda rivera #mama imelda #mama coco #hector rivera #hector coco #ernesto de la cruz #imector #hector x imelda

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