it seems that living is enacting memory. i talked to mom. she talks about a neighbor that moved into the place before mom did, who remembers mom, but not from before in the neighborhood. her memory starts with the place. maybe the mind is kind. maybe it's easier that way. mom remembers the summer place we went to in michigan, and between us we see it in our minds. that place may still exist, or it may be gone. it was twelve cottages on a high dune scape with a long stairway going down to the beach, called daisy's end. daisy was old. older than the place. it was old fifty years ago. the volume on the tv goes way up, roaring commercials, and mom can't turn it off. i really want to live according to a measure that i would call good. i want to work with memory while i have the ability and i want to do small acts of good. something about returning to a familiar place you have been before and remembering where you are. does that make sense?