petites madelines

Have you ever been in an ivy league course that did not reference Proust's madeline? Nope, me neither. English literature scholars, journalists, emo kids, anthropologists, babies walking around campus: all these motherfuckers are obsessed with it. I mean, I think memory is interesting too, but these ideas are not novel: when I hear/see/feel/smell x, I think of y. Sensory memories are exciting, yes, but they aren't pseudo-intellectual, really. They're emotional. Hence, sensory. This is all just to say that when I smell figs I think of looking through my mother's vanity mirror, watching her apply a deep maroon to her lips. But, like, who cares?

For a nonfiction class, I have to write one of these Prousty things. But I refuse to make it about the smell of laundry, or a memory of my father's coat, or whatever. When my memories are stirred up by some weird noise or smell emanating from the pavement, they all have one thing in common: they are not good memories. Why else would I have forgotten them in the first place?

These are the things I'm thinking about today, in between ordering clothes and books online, and wondering when the fuck a couple grad schools will make their decisions, so I can seriously begin to plan my life. Boring shit like apartment hunting, puppy hunting, huge bookshelf hunting, job begging, mattress purchasing: these things take time, and I am extremely ready to begin doing them.

Another thing, I believe spring has come to NYC, as evidenced by the way my entire body is dripping with debilitating allergies. It makes me want to blow my entire paycheck on a flight home to go shopping with my mom, and eat a burrito from Rosa Marias.

I feel like I could be in this city forever if I'm not careful.