Goodbye, yellow brick road
This is it, lovely readers.
The long and winding road has led us here, to the end of this blog. It's been fun and hopefully at least marginally interesting, I hope. I've decided to hang up the towel and move on to other things.
What's in store for the Scarylibrarian?
Well, I've decided that I'm going to pursue my true calling! That's right, I'm finally going to quit my day job so that I can utilize my talent to pursue a career in professional cheerleadering.
April fools, kids! The chance of a scantily clad Scarylibrarian cheering over paid athletes toward victory are equal to the chance of Britney Spears contemplating the origins of
Planck's constant (ie, never going to happen.)
Put down your pom poms and check out the
Picture of The Week. Foreigner once whined about wanting to know what love is and wanting you to show them, dammit. Photographer Richard D. McKeethen seems to have found it at the Powell Street station.
How do I live without you?
Diane Warren, the songwriter who penned "How Do I Live," said that she when she wrote the lyrics to this song she wasn't thinking about losing a boyfriend or a lover. She wrote about how she would feel if she didn't have music in her life. When you listen to the song knowing this little piece of back ground information, it changes for you. You start to think about the things in your life that bring you sanity and peace and release; you begin to wonder how, without these things, could you go on?
Writers like to write, I think, partially because of vanity. Writing an essay, novel or story is like carving initials in a tree or putting hand prints in wet cement. Our interpretation of the world around us through words is our way of saying, "I exist." I admit, I write partially because want to leave my mark, something that puts a stamp on the world around me to document that I was here. I also write because someday, if I am very lucky to lead a long life, I may not remember who I am or what I've accomplished. I want these words to bear witness to the life that I've led and how far I've come. I write because it is the truest form of beauty and grace, of anger and sorrow, of the sublime and divine.
