Maestro - Interior Monologue
Maestro - Internal Monologue
Eduard Keller
Intervention at page 71
Weeping like a baby, I walk away from the frustrating, sweet music that hides such devastating and infuriating emotions. Like a bright red rose that smells of redolent, aromatic fragrance satisfying the nose, yet with thorns that impair when tempted.
How insulting! How could they play Wagner? Although I knew that the orchestra would of course play Wagner, it seems that every time, I hope for something better; to keep my mind from compelling me to return back those memories. It is my fault. Every time I hear that dreadful music a wave of sentiment comes crashing down on top of me, leaving me to drown in horrifying memories. Even ones of when I used to smile. The pianissimo touch leaves me in deep thought vocalising that serenate sound that once used to award me great pleasure.
What terror has been brought upon you, my family? My most precious musical scores. Within those bars and staffs lay further profound melodies and blissful stories, with crescendos and rising chromatics presenting the climaxes and memorable flashbacks. How careless could I be? But of course, who would harm Keller’s wife and child? I pace my elderly, punctured body and soul towards the Swan. Tears streamline down the saturated face of a person so famous masked by someone so blind and ignorant. And now my consequences have rightfully found their place, forcing me to become invisible to the world. I am like a continuous, endless rest in a piece, after a contrast from mezzo forte to sforzando arpeggiated chords climbing up the piano. I was a maestro, known by all, forced to disappear within the thin air of Vienna and to reappear in the humid, alien land of booze and blow.
My previous life flashes excessively right in front of my eyes. Fortissimo hemidemisemi quavers trickle up and down in my mind at an incredible tempo that never seems possible in reality, the playing of Wagner. Images pounding out melancholically in some 3
Eduard Keller
Intervention at page 71
Weeping like a baby, I walk away from the frustrating, sweet music that hides such devastating and infuriating emotions. Like a bright red rose that smells of redolent, aromatic fragrance satisfying the nose, yet with thorns that impair when tempted.
How insulting! How could they play Wagner? Although I knew that the orchestra would of course play Wagner, it seems that every time, I hope for something better; to keep my mind from compelling me to return back those memories. It is my fault. Every time I hear that dreadful music a wave of sentiment comes crashing down on top of me, leaving me to drown in horrifying memories. Even ones of when I used to smile. The pianissimo touch leaves me in deep thought vocalising that serenate sound that once used to award me great pleasure.
What terror has been brought upon you, my family? My most precious musical scores. Within those bars and staffs lay further profound melodies and blissful stories, with crescendos and rising chromatics presenting the climaxes and memorable flashbacks. How careless could I be? But of course, who would harm Keller’s wife and child? I pace my elderly, punctured body and soul towards the Swan. Tears streamline down the saturated face of a person so famous masked by someone so blind and ignorant. And now my consequences have rightfully found their place, forcing me to become invisible to the world. I am like a continuous, endless rest in a piece, after a contrast from mezzo forte to sforzando arpeggiated chords climbing up the piano. I was a maestro, known by all, forced to disappear within the thin air of Vienna and to reappear in the humid, alien land of booze and blow.
My previous life flashes excessively right in front of my eyes. Fortissimo hemidemisemi quavers trickle up and down in my mind at an incredible tempo that never seems possible in reality, the playing of Wagner. Images pounding out melancholically in some 3