I wish I were playing honky-tonk piano in an incongruous situation right now.

Essays! Action!

Updates are at the bottom.

Welcome to the blogospheric play-by-play of the great twenty-six hour essay marathon. The local time is 12:53 and conditions in here are room temperature with no wind. We're in the basement of the King's Library, the upstairs of which is stunning by the way folks, in the Joy-Morrison-Smith-supported study nook. (A shout-out to Joy's name for reminding me why I subject myself to this: a deep sense of inner Morrison-Smith).

The tasks at hand:
1: FYP research paper
About: Coltrane's A Love Supreme in the context of Boethius, Marsilio Ficino, and other writers on religious music.
Length: 2000-2500 words

2: FYP Paper Enlightenment II
About: Immanuel Kant's Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals
Length: 1000-1500 words

3: FYP Paper Contemporary I
About: Ludwig "crazy-eyes" Wittgenstein
Length: 1000-1500 words

What's done:
-thousands of words of notes, quotations, utterly inscrutable annotations ("iii. Primaciate c. divrev>sacdoc errs not, natres>phisci errs")
-1337 words on Coltrane. For real. (pwnx0rx)
-800 words on Wittgenstein.
-2 words on Kant, and they're not appropriate for publishing.

Pictures!
old crazy-eyes

Update 1:
Twenty-two hours and thirty-eight minutes to go. Not a word more, but I've pulled all the quotations I need for most of the Coltrane out of the text and typed them up. What's the name of the Mingus-influenced bassist who was known for playing up high, melodic-style?

Update 2:
T minus 16 hours 42 minutes and counting. Clocking 2464 on Coltrane, and I still need to fill in some fact paragraphs. I'm saving that, brainless as it is, for when I'm even more sleep-insensate. Did I mention I did this last night, too? I'm going for the champeenship. Re-reading Wittgenstein, I see nothing suggesting that a whit of thought went into what I have there, and the language seems bad even to my dull, lifeless eyes. Ottawa's up 3-0, and I'm really good at pacman. I don't think the bassist I'm thinking of is Charlie Haden - he was Ornette Coleman's, wasn't he? It's in one of my sources, in a throwaway paragraph, and there's no index. I could read it cover-to-cover to find it. How many years do you think it will be until I can read what I will write tonight without cringing? Here's a picture of meat glowing like its wedding day:


Update 3:
I'm about to play one of those "write without stopping" games for fifteen minutes of Kant, to break the pack-ice that's built up over too many nights failing to write this paper. Before I do, however, I would like to shout out to Jiayi for inadvertently introducing me to DeVotchKa. They are Something.