#NaNoWriMo16 excerpt

…an adjunct “professor”.  Or whatever they want to call me this week.  I’m as well in a mood from the toll of day, from being at that desk answering phones— and not that I mind, I’m just stating it takes its tariff on a writer, just as it does my co-workers.  You could ask any of them how they feel at the end of the day, after processing whatever and answering calls answering the same dilemmas and grievances— “One of the bottles in my shipment was broken…” Holy shit.  The world’s ending?  People I work with do their job with a grace I could never embody.  I know my attitude shows, even at this age where I’m supposed to be composed and maintain some equilibrium about my octave and word choice and demeanor.  Me, this stubbornly angular penner, irreparably flawed.  Realizing at 37 I am who I am, I guess.


My disposition presently is leveled.  Now I lift the Govino plastic glass, or cup, to mouth—    Has the terrestrial romp of Pinot but with a more cogent code, more dialogue and communicative oscillation.  Softer, I’d say.  I want to sip again but I want it to “breathe” a bit more.  Yeah, ‘cause that’ll do so much, right?  I stare again at the glass, wonder what’s happening in their as oxygen invades and pushes and coerces the phenols to develop, say something to this already agitated and finicky writer.  More cost to who’s typing this, on my state, my emotions and processing of the moment on this floor, hearing the dryer upstairs, my babies asleep, wife in the other room watching some show she’d watch.  I’m a writing father, trying to find something, trying to be a … something.  And what am I?  Maybe that— a writing father.  And I’m accepted with that.  My desk, at work, not even my desk so why do I call it so.  Did I unplug my laptop?  Not much I can do if I didn’t, and why am I calling it MY laptop?  A job.. jobs… JOB.  Our job defines us, oui?  OR do we dote on and in the derelictum of expected…