What to Write?

Football is playing on the television in the other room but it is just background noise. The blank screen before me beckons some words, but the thoughts are too jumbled. Piles of references material and sketches are stacked on the floor. Webster's II New Riverside Dictionary awaits the adventure of finding the spelling of words when you don't know how to spell them. Rain brushes the bamboo against the window, then silence. Perhaps some music might help the mood. Without trying to sort or select any particular genre of music, a cardboard cover is released from it's dusty neighborhood and gingerly slide the black plastic from it's paper wrapper. The fragile sweet tones of Joni Mitchell flow from the speakers in a familiar remembrance of the thin striking figure with her pop/jazz band, but this was the simpler time with just a piano or guitar. Sliding back to the desk, the can is tilted and starts to fall. With eye and hand corduation, it is caught and uprighted before disaster. A red bandanna damp with remains of the pool is folded and placed back in the hip pocket. Another swallow, then the clink of cans overflowing the trashcan onto the floor. "And the seasons they go round and round, as the painted ponies go up and down...." the voice is so pure but the message is sad. Maybe food would entice the merry-go-round of ideas to filter out one idea. Food is not the answer. Nothing looks good or appealing and there is no real hunger, so another silver can is selected for the journey back into the chilly room. The single light bulb attracts the remaining insects from the warm afternoon as they will only become spider food. With a deep breathe and a long pause, the fingers touch the keyboard.
"Football is playing on the television in the other room but it is just background noise."