Slendher

Trans Lugia (WIP)

The story of Lugia is very much tied into the story of their writer, Takeshi Shudô. He was saddened to see the direction they took with Lugia in the film, feeling Lugia was presented in a way too masculine for what he envisioned.

I find myself emotionally invested in Lugias fate, I want to recognize the her inherent...I want to understand the langauge, the words he spoke, as I understand poetry. I find myself wondering, relying on others for her form, her words...am I so helpless to be named man as well after so many years unattested, even if miserable? Did I not bring happiness? Is my childhood not forever a scar? It is too late for Takeshi to change things...at least how I see it. People have moved on. Discussion threads on Bulbapedia are already 12 years old, the links to the translations broken. All I have left is the original japanese blog posts from Takeshi Shudô.

If your reading this and your interested I have included the link. I'd appreciate any feedback on any of the posts, regardless on what they are about. Thanks for reading either way.

Takeshi's blog:

Chuckin Chicken

2, 3 chicken breasts in the air fryer

It aint enough for you

4 or 5 more

Your hunger I adorned

On my heart, cooking spicy like spicy love

With you

Turned hot when you suddenly said

I aint hungry

But I still got a soft spot

On my heart

For your dumbass bullshit, your games

Packing shit up

But it always ends the same

"Im tired of your bullshit"

He tellin me like I aint shit

Chuckin clothes in trash bags

My fucking trashbags

Clothes I folded so nicely

You folded so icey but you

Cant even drive yourself home

Got me droppin you off

With your clothes

In a car

That you cant even lock

You aint got nothing on lock

But my heart is unlocked for you

Thoughts on Serial Experiments Lain

The show exists for me in a very nostalgic place. It makes me think about what the meaning of Nostalgia is to begin with. When I looked up the definition on Merrium Webster it was something to the effect of melancoly and overly sentimental longing for the past. More bizzare the American Heritage Foundation said it may be fatal in one of their definitons. Apparently it used to be an actual diagnosis. It's interesting to me to distinguish what i think a word means, and then learn what it really means through its history. Lain longs for a home in her humanity, though it never really existed at all. What was once an illusive almost supernatural world full of meaning lost its meaning as she drove herself deeper and deeper into the wired. Her connection to home grew more and more painful as reality dissappeared and she still hung onto what reality used to mean. It's a lot like how we today become dissallusioned with life as we spend all day online, constantly connected to dozens of platforms and screens of different kinds. The technology might look more obviously bizzare and disturbing in Lain with the tubes and wires and buzzing but our own world I think provokes the same emotion if you ground yourself to reality. The problem is i think searching for something that was never real. I think for a moment Lain let those walls down with that final hug.

If you dont see whats fucked up about this don't follow this blog.

A trans woman looks at herself in the mirror

Iris?

Floating down river as my gaze glimmers over glass.

Weather me woman piercing lights

Cacoon a cascading layer of man, yet each layer ever so thin as paper skin

Blue eyes beautey basking in her light

Breathless at the sight of blood

Soaked in synergy inside her eyes eye

Where her male gaze fades away

Dissappearing into the mirror until a stranger meets her gaze

Its a movie in front of her

Moving picturesque

The beautiful is opaque

Evil is clear and transluscent

Social Suicide

My life is worthless to you, small and insignificant yet you try so hard to extinguish me. I come out as a furry in high school you say:

Social Suicide

My heart sinks. Have I thrown everything away? Is it my fault I'm a furry? My fault I'm an outcast? My fault I'm autistic? My fault im depressed...its so silly, spoken aloud. My problems, clouds. Soft and dreamy, just a little less sun and im weak and weary...

Social Suicide

They are your words, not mine. So worried of others that you've already died. Maybe you are the one who has killed oneself to fit in? I had no friends then, but when will you have a true friend when your already dead?

Social Suicide

You were just trying to warn me, however misguided...why cant we be carefree...why must we die to belong, to belong inside our own homes, found families, find our own roads? Why can't i let you go? Why cant i commit?

Social Suicide.

Please just write. Love yourself. Live life. Your self advice is that there is no self help advice and we can only exist.

Biography

MY ACCOUNT IS 18+ MINORS DNI

"This is not for you"

-Mark Z Danielewski, "House of Leaves"

My name is Dreamgazer, and im 26 years old. I use She/Her and They/Them pronouns. Im also cool with any feminine pronouns you might know. I'm a Non Binary Trans Woman. I'm on the AuDHD spectrum. I started this blog because I've been passionate about writing my whole life. I felt it was time to put my work out there again publically, and see what people think. This is your blanket trigger warning for my blog, because I will not individually label each post for potential triggers. Some topics I might write about may be controversial, but judging by the rest of Tumblr I'm actually fairly mild. Feel free to ask me anything or request poetry. You can private message me if your interested in commissioning me for editing or writing, but poems are free. If you've read this far and you like my writing please consider commenting or rebloging. Feedback is important for me to improve at my job, and is always appreciated. Thank you for reading. :)

-I disagree with Radqueers and Conservatives personally but im open to civil dialouge with either.

-This blog is a safe space for LGBTQIA+ and allies. I also have zero tolerance for hate against people for being cis/straight.

Analysis:

The first few lines about science and untroubled silence puts me in the headspace of the learned astronomer. I appreciate how small of a moment this poem tries to capture, and how that is emcapsulated by the subject of the poem a snowflake (though the word is unused in the poem). Perhaps the exclusion of the word snowflake or any such name for the object of focus has some relation to the final line, which deals in form as a "...perfect individual shape is lost".

A perfect individual shape being lost in the mass of complexity, which on the surface appears simple as snow often does. Thats whats so perplexing about nature, makes me want to stare at it for long periods of time.

Its somewhat melancholic that something as perfectly indivual as a snowflake is lost in frost, yet still when one looks at fresh frost it is beautiful. This touches my gothic sensibilities as someone whose come to see beautiful in the misery of a quiet untroubled life (perhaps thats hard to explain to most people but maybe poets will understand that).

A perfect individual shape being lost in its collective also put me in mind of platonic forms (ie what is a chair?) Perhaps something as seemingly simple as snow is really quite inexplicable when you view it in its totality of snowflakes, such is humanity in the context of humans. I find such truths overwhelming and depressing particularly in cold winter months.

Snow is suffocating with this reminder yet it is also an escape, as it is profound.

(Reblogged with permission from author)

They crystallize in untroubled silence In this early pause, it's a quiet science When you look up Standing so perfectly still No movement but your Breath billowing up towards the sky One catches your eye Before weaving slowly to the ground Before joining the others in the frost You don't make a sound As its perfect, individual shape is lost

Vhsige

Waves, like eye worms float in my field of view, fixed on a point. The point is the image of a woman, every strand of hair its own entity of woman. Brushed perfectly, my feelings brushed perfectly, as I lie in bed I watch her hair fall over me, I feel it in my sleep when I dream and a million fingers grace my cheeks. Her gentle curve is an image, like an image on a curved screen so smooth it isnt real. Im depressed again. I do not love the woman but the lines, the static, the electricity between us. If i touched her she would shock me, make my heart stop beating. I don't know who she is and I'm afraid to find out. I want her image, to be her image, and let the humanity left slip away. Perhaps you may feel it one day on our tape, when you play the tape. When you hold a finger over the TV screen and feel that familiar fuzz you had forgotton. A memory you can't quite reach? That is my hand reaching out to touch yours, but never reaching.