I couldn't sleep last night. I got home at about 22:30 from the Ecstatic Music Marathon, talked with my friend about it, drank some cider, sat down to write, tried to write this very sentence (and couldn't), wrote some other sentences (see below), and finally cashed in my chips about 0:45--or tried to.
It's like after a whole day of skiing, your body is exhausted but when you lay down to sleep, you keep twitching as if were skiing the slopes in your mind. You can't go on but you can't stop.
My mind's ear kept replaying moments of the day's 7-hour marathon concert (while my ears' ears were ringing just slightly--in a strangely pleasant way, like a sore muscle after a good work out). Finally, though, sleep.
I had finally made it to the Marathon at about 15:00--an hour after it started--and nearly immediately wished I had gotten there on time. (But maybe it's just my American sense of "don't-want-to-miss-anything".) I was able to see most of Death Valley Junction, a Missy Mazzoli piece, on the lobby tv--performed by some obscenely talented teens--but not enough to judge.
7 hours was just about right for me. Like a Wagner opera or a Baptist church service, you know you're in for the long haul and so adjust your expectations accordingly. But there was no real commitment--no financial commitment anyway--so for less rapt audience members, there was the freedom to come and go--depending, of course, on the queue. [The ~450-seat theater had 1,050 butts-in-seats.]
Once you're inside such an event, time has a funny way of either dragging, flying, or, in moments of ecstasy, ceasing to exist all together. So far, then, this festival is aptly titled.