Dinosaurs have made two notable appearances to me, and assuming that I have by now befriended them, I look forward to their next visit immensely. The first time I was graced by their presence was in the sixth grade. Having become an expert on Shel Silverstein, I decided it was time I started writing my own poetry. Needless to say, I took up my blue erasable pen, and the art ensued. Now only one stanza of that poem survives in my memory, the rest being packed away no doubt in some plastic bin in the attic of my parent’s garage. It’s not elegant, not particularly sensible even, but purely by virtue of rhythm and peculiarity, that first visit from the prehistoric has survived. That fragment is this:

In the land of dinosaurs

There’s Trinosaurs and Crinosaurs

And oh they are so very big

Why that one there looks like a pig

Oh, what youthful tones! How to recapture that freedom! Put that in front of an English major and see what they can possibly do to criticize the utter simplicity of sounds for sound's sake! Or would they dare point out a clever transition? Is this poem an invitation? Does the last line point to the author’s hidden attempt to pull a worldview over the reader's head? Perhaps that esteemed fellow wants us to view the pig, the everyday, the mundane even, as a dinosaur! Perhaps the dinosaur represents personal discovery, available around every turn to those ready to look for it! Or perhaps there is none of that, and the lines are just an imitation of poetry, created by the young author and his book of Shel Silverstein.

But regardless of quality, the unavoidable fact is that the lines were created. Even though the author (namely and proudly myself) was not considering an academic thesis at the time, there was still a definite rhyme scheme in mind, one which mattered enough to make up new words. The presocratic philosophers struggled to express themselves because their language was not yet developed enough, but the child, thinking only of music in sound, does not care to stay within his vocabulary, and instead seizes an opportunity to create from scratch. The Crinosaur is not real, but its definition is clear. The Crinosaur is the most fantastic, imagination-fueling species of all the dinosaurs.

That was the first time the dinosaurs visited, and it was not until six years later that I saw them again. I was told to give a presentation on deconstructivism. With nowhere to start, I took to scrolling through slides carnival, and suddenly a dinosaur appeared! Even before considering how dinosaurs fit my theme, I knew I would have to use them. But sincerely, could any creatures be a more perfect representation of deconstructivism than creatures who were suddenly deconstructed? Here is something amazing: giant lizards roaming the earth, bigger and more colorful than elephants. They roam, some munching green leaves from tall trees with their even taller necks, others seeking dripping blood from any weak enough to be the tribute. All are dead. The asteroid hitting the ground, creating a devastating shockwave through the earth, mirrors the critic finding the single point of weakness from which to dismantle symbolism, destroy interpretation, and deconstruct meaning. The colorful life of a novel falls apart under the permanent pen of the critic seeking only to destroy.

When young, without the vocabulary to use the already defined words, my own words could be defined. Now, criticizing literature means focusing on the words of others. But both, I think, offer a freedom of the self. To describe the self in one word is limiting, but sitting down with a pen in hand and authenticity in mind helps one’s words begin to reflect inward. Through the poem one can see the thoughtful child, carefully crafting rhythm and theming, grinning as he reads his own creation. Through the notes jotted in the margins of The Heart of Darkness, one sees again a careful thoughtfulness, this time directed toward thesis rather than in isolation. Isn’t the child trying to be Shel Silverstein the same as the high school student trying to argue against a professional deconstructivist?

I sit at a window-side library desk as I write, looking out over carefully planned lawns next to stone buildings. To be a student writer, it seems, is to stand in the footsteps of giants. It is to wield the sword, but only as the knight’s squire. But I do not wish to be here. I wish to be in the distant green hills, past the walls of kudzu and beyond reach of the destructive critic. I wish to be Sir Gawain, on a journey to something mysterious, on the way to proving myself, hunting that green knight in a search that will lead only inward.

Yes, hunting is the word for it. I am hunting. I am on the trail. I creep along the footsteps, pushing through mud as fog envelops me. A twig snaps, piercing my ears as if a bullet. My head snaps to the right, eyes straining at shadowy silhouettes. Where, oh where is that beast? Eyes lower, back to the prints. But where have they gone? No, no, washed away by a sudden rain, they disappear. Drops, falling, become salinized as they mix with stinging tears and dripping sweat. My feet sink another inch into viscous gloop as darkening fog becomes thicker, always thicker. Darker, thicker, and deeper the gloop. What sense do I have for any except the numbing? Do I sweat? Do I cry? I know not if it is me anymore. Only rain, only fog, only dark mud. 

Yet here, where the light is dim, where the senses numb, where I am left hollowed, this is where I know it to be. This is where the thinking happens. This, this as I write meaningless words, separated from all except myself, is where it happens. Deep in muddy thought I am lifted by some inhuman thing. Lifted, pulled, stretched, and finally I am free. The hunted has become the hunter. I, clutched in the grasp of an ancient creature, begin to see the tops of trees above the fog. I tried to see by standing in footsteps, and I saw only shadows. Now, looking down, I see trees, so long without water, reveling in the mud. Birds, ready to find the first worms, ready to feed their young, perch on branches. They are not lost in the mud. No, they know that by looking for long enough they will eventually find what they need. A great joy comes over me. 

This writing is not for you. It is for me. I, who was despairing in my loss, am now in wonder at it. Order becomes increasingly in focus, but in doing so only shines light on an even more complex puzzle. My place can be the knight, but the quest is endless. I have on occasion found a Crinosaur, but now I must keep engaging in the quest to find one again.