TurboTracks

I'm a 19 year old female. I enjoy writing, reading, roleplaying, and many other pastimes. I'm secretly, not-so-secretly, a fangirl of Tracks from G1 transformers. Well, cause dat voice. How can a girl resist that? My favorite color is green; I can't draw for my life, so perhaps it's a bit odd to join dA, but I'm hoping to put up some writing and just get to know some other Transformers fans. My other secret fangirl crush is Ratchet. Who doesn't love a medic? My favorite books series is Eragon by Christopher Paolini along with Clive Cussler's adventure/action series. I love country, pop, and 60s music. I'm currently in college as an English major (hence student writer).

NOTE: I like because I like, not for pageviews. I ask you pay me the same courtesy and only like my art if you like it, not to get thanked/gain a pageview.

ANOTHER NOTE: The next piece is not by me, but one of my most favorite excerpts. It's written by Joyce Carol Oates, and she gets all the credit.

"It is a fact that, to the other, nothing ever happens. I, a mortal woman, move through my life with the excited interest of a swimmer in uncharted waters – my predilections are few, but intense – while she, the other, is a mere shadow, a blur, a figure glimpsed in the corner of the eye. Rumors of “JCO” come to me thirdhand and usually unrecognizable, arguing, absurdly, for her historical existence. But while writing exists, writers do not – as all writers know. It’s true, I see her photograph – my “likeness” – yet it is rarely the same “likeness” from photograph to photograph, and the expression is usually one of faint bewilderment. "I acknowledge that I share a name and face with “JCO,” this expression suggests, but this is a mere convenience. Please don’t be decieved!”

“JCO” is not a person, nor even a personality, but a process that has resulted in a sequence of texts. Some of the texts are retained in my (our) memory, but some have bleached out, like pages of print left too long in the sun. Many of the texts have been translated into forgien languages, which is to say into texts at another remove from the primary – sometimes even the author’s name, on the dust jacket of one of these texts, is unrecognizable by the author. I, on the contrary, am fated to be “real” – “physical” – “corporeal” – to “exist in Time.” I continue to age year by year, if not hour by hour, while “JCO,” the other, remains no fixed age – in spiritual essence, perhaps, forever poised between the fever of idealism and the chill of cynicism, a precocious eighteen years old. Yet, can a process be said to have an age? An impulse, a strategy, an obsessive tracery, like planetary orbits to which planets, “real” planets, must conform?

No one wants to believe the obvious truth: the “artist” can inhabit any individual, for the individual is irrelevant to “art.” (And what is “art”? A firestorm rushing through Time, arising from no visible source and conforming to no principles of logic or casuality.) “JCO” occasionally mines, and distorts, my personal history; but only because the history is close at hand, and only then when some idiosyncrasy about it suits her design, or some curious element of the symbolic. If you, a dear friend of mine, should appear in her work, have no fear – you won’t recognize yourself, any more than I would recognize you.

It would be misleading to describe our relationship as hostile in any emotional sense, for she, being bodiless, having no existence, has no emotions; we are more helpfully defined as diamagnetic, the one repulsing the other as magnetic poles repulse each other, so that “JCO” eclipses me, or, and this is less frequent, I eclipse “JCO,” depending upon the strength of my will.

If one or the other of us must be sacrificed, it has always been me.

And so my life continues through the decades… not connected in the slightest with that conspicious other with whom, by accident, I share a name and a likeness. The fact seems self-evident that I was but the door through which she entered – “it” entered – but any door would have done as well. Does it matter which entrance you use to enter a walled garden? Once you’re inside and have closed the door?

For once, not she but I am writing these pages. Or so I believe."

- "Joyce Carol Oates"