I’m still at the Tapia Conference in D.C., but things are winding down and so today I slept in until around noon, and then Eve and I walked around through a sculpture garden. We had intended to see some museums and national monuments, but ended up in the National Gallery of Art. Before that had some shake-less shack burgers. There was an exhibit, American Silence, on Robert Adams’ photography on display that Eve had wanted to see and which I really enjoyed. I noticed that my enjoyment was seriously enhanced by the good captioning and quotes and such placed throughout the exhibit, which I took plenty of photos of and using which I intend to write some poetry soon. I think I experience meaning disproportionately through words, and I particularly like that they give me a framework for framing things to myself which is difficult to do with more abstract things like arbitrary visuals and sounds and such, though perhaps I just need to learn the vocabulary for those kinds of things.

“And So”, Caroline Shaw & Attaca Quartet

But in the verse there’s always time

“The Gift”, Li-Young Lee

This poem is fucking beautiful. Fucking beautiful. I came across it again, looking for the next poem, of similar name.

“The Secret”, Jeffrey McDaniel

This, the poem I was looking for. I often want for this poem, remembering its ending. I don’t wish I was in your arms. I just wish I was pedaling a bicycle toward your arms. Anyhow, I came wanting this poem after seeing a portion of the Adams exhibit titled “The Gift”, which turns out to be the name of the poem above. So there, everything is a circle.

From Tolstoy: Future love does not exist. Love is a present activity only. The man who does not manifest love in the present has not love.
Sadly, transcribing this here, I am reminded of my father.

Eve and I ended up walking out again later in the evening, after closing ceremony dinner-type thing, and went by the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial and all before trying to get food and first ending up at a restaurant called Toro Toro that apparently turned into a nightclub past 10pm and finally a Yard House where we had to order at the bar and take it outside, and funny experience, I could tell Eve was a little out of her element of course, funny times. Anyhow, we were talking about what we each get out of poetry and writing and I was enjoying the discourse. It’s interesting to me that people can write for different reasons. I perceive mine as mainly genuineness, probing the edges of my subconscious, and some aesthetic component (of course). I hope to keep having this out with myself, with her, with others. And so on. The poetic part is learning to channel it. The poetic part is learning to channel it. I need this message for myself.

Again, poem forthcoming re. Robert Adams photography as well now. A mish-mash, Sisyphus and all. It’s not quite ready yet.