Flattened. And melting down the stairs.

Why can't I write?

If we had chapter titles for each phase of our lives, that would be the current title of the chapter I'm living now. WHY CAN'T I WRITE? I used to be able to wait for the inspiration to come to me and then I'd just fucking sit down and write it. Hormones. Unrequited love. That must have been it, considering the only poetry I ever wrote worth a damn involved some dramatic yen for someone on the opposite pole of the earth. No one exists like that in my daily life anymore. And ok a) that's just sad and b) that's also kind of fortunate b/c I'm in my mid thirties and really, if I was proclaiming about rainbows and cricket stridulation, mooning over some dude in a coffee shop, well, that would just be pathetic. Yet, there goes my muse? Most women my age are mooning over their newborns or their I don't know...I guess most women my age aren't mooning anymore. Most people aren't blogging about their "glory days" as a writer of anonymous, unrequited love poetry.

In the last week I experienced my first earthquake, a hurricane that had me evacuated out of my house and the realization that neither of those things planted any kind of creative idea in my head. So, consequently, I am a little depressed. And  yes, relieved ok that nothing of mine was lost or damaged and I'm ok but jeez I feel like being a child for a minute and whining about my first world problems!

Along the lines of the type of things that used to inspire me, this morning I watched an episode of Louie. In among the hilarity (the show makes me laugh that true laughter, the kind that starts at the bottom of your stomach and lifts your whole body and you still feel it weeks after you first laughed about it) was an extremely heartfelt scene wherein Louie proclaims his love for this woman who is his friend and who has no interest in being anything but his friend and resists every second of his proclamation. They are standing outside in a flea market in cold weather surrounded by people bundled up under the grey NYC winter afternoon and someone is playing an out of tune, broken, flea market piano. He tells her, among other things:

Look I know you don't feel the same way about me. I know that. I'm not stupid..I don't..it's fine I'm actually fine with the way things are, that i'm in a constant state of agitation. It's actually better than any real requited love sex thing I ever had.

Nail,  you've been hit on the head.
I think if we had yearbook quotes, that would be mine. Not exactly dating site fodder though, is it? Maybe I should just stalk Louie CK since he knows what's up and would consistently keep me either laughing or turn my heart into a Bugs Bunny type comedy accordion, you know, flattened and melting down the stairs. We'd be the perfect sad sack couple, we would.