Sense memory.
The other morning, the scent of my morning shower soapiness threw me backwards to the summer of '93, Santa Cruz, that two-headed shower that was "made for lovers". I was sitting in traffic today, stuck with the commute and zoning out to trance music, and I was hit by a waft of paste odor. The little tubs from kindergarten, with the plastic knives stuck in the screw-on caps. I smelled my grandfather's cologne once, as I played the piano - was he alright? The smell was so strong as to be almost palpable. Had he been hurt or had a heart attack? He was fine, as it turns out, but that explains nothing. Am I making these things up? Is this some bio-chemical version of method acting, the memories lurking just below the surface actually calling my olfactory into action?

We've all listened to a tune that recalled our broken hearts and lost loves, and felt the familiar downward tug on our emotions. We imbue everything around us with meaning and sentimentality, and through association we forever banish their surroundings to the same pit of despair into which go our memories. But that soap was nothing special - I've used that soap every day for three months. I'll bet I never used it once in Santa Cruz. What was so special on that particular Tuesday? What strange collaboration of my physical senses and associative mind conspired to fling me headlong into complete and total confusion?

If my brain is trying to send me a message, I wish it'd just send me an email like everybody else.