Grandpa Simpson and me

I always thought I could steer my pen in whatever direction I intended. A rapier wit, an hilarious voice, I could quibble and quip with even the nastiest curmudgeons. I disdained the television set. Thought Homer Simpson a bore, and his grandpa an embarrassment. Lately, with blood sugar stabilizing and the arduous task of editing of a complicated, if brilliant, metaphorical but psychiatrist work of historical horror fiction, The White Bridge,my time has been limited and the joviality of my spirit has suffered.I realize I am less than perfect. And not funny. Especially at 4a.m. Why, then, am I awake if not to be a social critic? A sour taste, an unkind spirit, I long for the peaceful vicissitudes of dreams.It is the time when I write notes to myself, always discarded, but sometimes get carried away. It paradoxically is also the time some of my best writing gets done. And my worst, my most confounded, unclear thoughts. And,also, it is the time of forgetfulness, when, in the middle of an intention, I fall asleep with work undone, deletions left on the back burner, unchecked. Usually, I awake with no recollections of somnambulism experienced. Once, I wrote a poem that a friend read and submitted it for publication without my recollection I had ever written it. Now this no defense against the word-slaughter charge I faced for having a geriatric meltdown. But my dis-inhibited, or simply put, my big mouth has to be self-controlled better. So, "sorry," to all I offended. But give me a break. There's so much more to me. Think of Grandpa Simpson, for goodness sake. Move over and save a little place for me.