I’ve been watching a documentary on dinosaurs: The discovery of Utahraptor nearby Gastonia and what their relationship might have been. Apparently Utahraptor would not ordinarily have preyed upon Gastonia, which was pretty heavily armoured and defended, however they are theorising that it was times of drought and Utahraptor was desperate… Much like a lone lion who is driven by starvation to prey upon a buffalo.
Meanwhile Gastonia is an awesome name for a dinosaur; way cooler than Utahraptor, which is quite an uninspired title for a top predator. Twice the size of Deinonychus!
Watching the cycle of deduction was pretty enlightening. Being a paleontologist is one of the many careers I could easily have chosen. If dinosaurs are what resides in our imaginations when we read of them and look upon their bones, based upon what those before us had concluded thus far, then they were very different creatures when I was reading my illustrated books about dinosaurs as a seven year old obsessesante. As I recall, my childhood Tyrannosaurus Rex stood proudly vertical — like Godzilla — her tail dragging in the dust behind her. My Brontosaurus (as he was known at the time) lifted his head many stories high, as a giraffe, his tail (again) dragging behind him. Often he was to be found in swamps, where the water could buoy his massive bulk, which his puny skeletal system could not handle.
If you visit the Queensland Museum today, you can see their likenesses in the front children’s play area. I think there may now be a sign defensively declaring that these particular monuments had been constructed in a time when those designing them had no fucking clue what they were on about.
Guesses and assumptions. Slow moving, cold blooded, unintelligent (why else would they be extinct) monsters. Seriously?
I’ve a pretty advantageous viewpoint up here on the shoulders of these giants, I know. It makes me wonder… What will those whose perspective is ever so much higher again think of me and us, one day?
Given the political atmosphere in my country of residence, I rather dread to think. Subject change, post haste!
I’ve begun a private journal, with a minimum word count per day. When I was typing furiously away in it today Brenton wondered what I was up to. Why would I not allow him to peek over my shoulder? Well, because allowing anyone else to read the contents of my private thought-dump defeats the entire purpose! of doing it for one’s only self. The idea is that the content and style of one’s writing is very different when in a private Vs public sphere.
Which I suppose are both different again to words which are never to be read by anyone, ever, once they are out of the skull-pocket. Such as are typed in said private journal. Seeking a quiet space, just for me, dismantling my thoughts, et cetera. So. That is why I don’t want Brenton to read it. For the first time, I am not writing with a mask on. I don’t want that mask to come sneaking in to that space… for it to become an issue; for it is always, always an issue. Moreso for me than most, I imagine (but then again, don’t we all. I should just entitled my self-published journals “Moreso for me”).
I must admit, I am not entirely sure I have ever written anything, EVER, for one’s only ever self. For all of my journals I am certain I have had the idea, nestled quietly in the very back of my brainjunk, that of course someone would one day cast their curious gaze upon these gory innards… if only my own children, on finding the decaying remnants of such in the dankest depths of my cat infested, penetrated by none (bar myself) unintentional tomb. Because who else would want to read my journal, haha, ha, … . private joke.