An Austrian March

The Sonata Form

The world is a sheet of music, or at least that's how I see it. Everyone could see that if they took the time to notice, but of course that's easier said than done. Regardless, the world flows together, its people and their decisions creating notes and rhythms, all to create a harmonious tune.

But there are always accents. People change and grow. They add their own crescendos and staccatos, always different depending on the musician who decides to play the tune. The moods and tones create a distinctive piece, an individual path for the person to follow. No two musicians will ever play the part exactly the same, however, they can influence each other and intertwine their songs. But that's just how I see the world.

Perhaps it's due to my inclination as a musician. A bit obsessive, yes, but I like to think of it as one of my many quirks. Excuse me, I have yet to introduce myself. My name is Klemens Reinstadler, Austrian by birth and blood. I have an addictive personality where the arts are concerned, particularly with classical music, which I have found is seen as an oddity in America, where I am currently attending to my studies.

The music here is much different than what I know. The rock, pop, country, and all subsequent sub-genres that fall in between lack the quality I find in classical. There is no thought to any of it. It's all just raucous noise and synthesized beats, with hardly any rhyme or reason. And the lyrics? Laughable. It lacks principle, thought, and the basic passion that is required to make a long-lasting tune. They'll fade with time, but my classical will always remain.

While I don't care for the music, the institutions in America are fabulous, particularly that of my college - Julliard. The food is as good and much heartier than anything I had at home, though that could explain the immediate increase in my waistline. But I digress. Though America has its luxurious perks, the language itself lacks any creativity. With enough practice, one can create something beautiful, but the average language is far beyond artistic.

I gave up much of what I’ve always enjoyed to attend the wonderful university that is Julliard, but I would sacrifice nearly everything for my music. It has been my life from the beginning, but as time has gone by, I have noticed something lacking in my music that I hadn’t before. I’m missing a particular emotion or feeling, perhaps? I can't be sure, as of yet, but my time here will be well spent. I won't leave until I find the missing step in my waltz, the lack of lilt in my Aria, my missing piece.

It's only a matter of time.

The speaker in our classroom, a dusty box, a cobweb-covered eyesore, crackled to life, and the sharp intake of breath at the other end had the entire room transfixed with curiosity.

"Klemens Reinstadler. Klemens Reinstadler, please come to the International Affairs Office."

 I always fancied myself as someone who shied away from all kinds of attention, unless it involved a stage and an instrument beneath my fingers, of course. Otherwise, I kept to myself. That's not to say I would cow down in a public place. Oh no. My inner Austrian pride would never allow that. But I physically winced at the mention of my name over the speaker, and regretted it immediately as it drew the eyes from the speaker to me. No one ever used the speakers anymore. The school had expanded and technology made it much easier to just contact students directly, rather than interrupt an entire class, but not the International Student Affairs office. Most students who transferred from other countries had no cell phones or didn't speak English well enough to learn to use the American equivalent. It was much easier to teach them to come running if they heard their names over the speaker. Most would go quickly, but not me. I always hesitated.