I’m worried now but I won’t be worried long
Bry’s Blog / June 20, 2015
“It takes a worried man to sing a worried song.” Hey, Bill, I couldn’t get that hoary old blues out of my freaking head. Couldn’t remember the last stanza until good old Arthur recited it (page 326). “I asked the judge what might be my fine. Twenty-one years on the Rocky Mountain line.”
Story of my life.
Okay, Bill, I’m sober and I’m flabbergasted. Respectful of your privacy, I climbed to your loft, your office-in-home, solely intending to enjoy your pretty pastoral view from windows high up. But on your desk, giving me a come-hither look, was an opened, padded brown envelope with the full 330 pages of your final copy edit.
And now I have a complete picture of your Brian Pomeroy, key words being stoner, loser, boozer, clown, crackers, sexaholic. I have a theory about why you created that raving whacko from me, you unimaginative copycat. First I thought it was just a taunt, but I’ve now picked up a more sinister message. Try this on for size—is there something deeper, buried in the author’s psyche, that makes him want to create your Pomeroy out of my bone, blood, and brain? So you could let loose the wild man within who struggles against the shackles of inhibition. Yeah, I’m the Brian in you. I’m the guy you were afraid of, yet hungered to be.
I had problems but I lived! I rode low and I rode high! You’ve never known that high!
Yeah, Deverell, I am the person you don’t have the guts to be, I’m your dark side, your shadow self, the whispering evil angel on your shoulder. I’m inside you. I’m your id.