i thought about memory a lot but i think about it more and more, i don't know if i'm afraid, yes i guess i am, of losing, but i'm aware that my memory is a confluence of biography, my selfworld, and the collective, if the collective exists, and i feel like it does, even in our isolation. talking with trudy, she's lost her present memory, though retaining her past, but the past is unchanging maybe, because past memory evolves in present memory, and that she lacks. she said her dad lost his, and she noticed when he stopped reading the newspaper. he said, as soon as i finish it's gone. i said to steve if i stop reading i'll be so bereft. i think i would read for the sensual pleasure i've always gotten, and for solace, even if i feel the words draining away. i would still want to feel words wash over me. and even now i don't know what i retain, essence without distinct or retrievable memory. 
i can feel the disturbance in trudy, the dislocation from memory. she remembers the farm and the cats she had to leave behind when the family immigrated here, but she doesn't remember what or if she ate. her mind returns to the same questions hoping perhaps this time she can take up where she left off, following the traces she left to guide herself out of the forest. but when she is not thinking about memory she feels calm now to me. there is a difference between acceptance and resignation though, and i think perhaps she's now somewhere in between.
i'll keep studying memory, and when it's gone, i think i'll read on.