Maura's Illuminated Manuscript

I now know that it isn't my heat pump that's tripping the breaker that my stove is on, because I turned off my heat pump a couple of days ago. Also, it tripped at the more reasonable hour of 2130; I think the Wendling had gotten home from work not long before. We'll talk over chicken in a white wine reduction tomorrow evening.

But all that was after I'd gotten my Sunday chore* done early and going to the Monkey Loft for a little day rave with Brit Jean & co. It was in the original upstairs room, not the roof or the downstairs, which is perfectly acceptable except for one thing: that room seems to resonate at lower frequencies. Yes, the speakers are way better than they were fifteen or twenty years ago, but I noticed that unlike Substation, there are no panels on the walls to deaden the room.

I asked Brit about this. She didn't want to talk about it too loudly because the owner was standing not five feet away and he "doesn't like change". That's an odd thing to say, because he used to live in the very room we were standing in; I remember when there was a counter that sometimes had his dishes on it, and now it's a legit and nice-looking night spot. Plus, that dude invested in a sweet Funktion One system for the downstairs. I dunno, maybe he doesn't want to harm the esthetics of the main room which, I must say, are nice. But Brit is at least aware of the issue. She told me she's the reason that the sound at the Blue Moon doesn't suck, so she gets even more of my respect than she had already.

And I think that was the first time I'd ever heard Brit DJ. Not bad!

Edited to add: the Wendling says he didn't get home until 2300 last night, so nothing that he manually turned on is causing my breaker to trip. Another theory bites the dust.



*Bins, beans & rice, buying groceries, and baskets of laundry.

I went to a modular synthesizer meetup in Georgetown last night. It was even nerdier than you think, by a lot.

The meetup was in an auto repair shop not far from Marginal Way. It took me a while to find the open entrance because hey, it was after hours. There were a couple of dudes nail gunning something together; not my favorite sound up close.

But arguably more pleasant and certainly more interesting were the sounds coming from three or four racks full of modules, all plugged into one 16-track mixer board and one big speaker. Each rack had a few dozen modules, some bought "pre-built" and some "DIY", assembled by their owners. Some had even apparently been designed by people present.

Some modules had LEDs that lit up in a rainbow of colors; some were just a few jacks, switches, and knobs. Also rainbow were the dozens if not hundreds of patch cords that make all the racks work. I didn't mess with any of those, but I did turn some knobs, which is what playing a modular synthesizer is all about. As one of the people present said when I professed my ignorance, "More knob is better."

Speaking of people there, I was of course the only woman in a room with about ten dudes. Nerdy-lookin' dudes. Yeah, surprising as the sunrise.

I did get a couple of them to explain to me what some of the modules were and how signals flowed through. There were sequencers, controllers, oscillators, filters, voltage-controlled amplifiers, effects modules, mixers (modules in addition to the exterior board), and even one module called a Trepanator.

I had to ask what kinds of signals are going through all those patch cords. They're just audio signals at TTL-ish* voltages. No MIDI, nothing fancy.

There was a dude patiently soldering together a module among the cacophony, to underscore the point that the meetup was at least nominally for people who wanted to make modular synthesizers.

I didn't stay too late because it was... a lot of stimulation in a small room with a concrete floor and nowhere for anyone but Soldering Dude to sit. I also had to travel much of the considerable length of Seattle to get home. I gave recovery from surgery as my excuse.

Am I hooked? I don't think so, but I can understand how some people might be. The circumflatulation possibilities are limitless. And you can get bleepy goodness out of all these electronics.



*0V-5V, -2.5V-2.5V, and in some cases 0V-10V. Some modules can accommodate different voltage ranges, but sometimes you have to do "offsets", and that involves arithmetic.

Good:
Oatmeal: back on the menu today.
Salad: back on the menu as of last night, provided it has nothing crunchy like carrots or radishes.
Bread: back on the menu as of last night, including crust, if it isn't super crusty.
Dental care: back to normal as of a couple of days ago. Electric toothbrush, floss, night guard.

Less good:
Nose taping: 24/7 except for showers, at least for another week and possibly three. My nose is still a little tender, so I have to wash my face gently while it's untaped.
Evil prescription shampoo: at least one more week and possibly three. I'm afraid to use conditioner, because the point of the shampoo is to prevent infection, which leads me to...
Hairline incision: red, with decreasing lumpiness. At least the scabs have come off, sometimes with a few hairs. I've been faithfully applying my silicone gel to it. I've also been wearing a hat whenever I go outside or get on video at work. I'll be doing that until November.
Walking: have I gotten in two hours every day? Wayell, some days I've done an hour and a half. If I get a bonus for walking uphill, I'm all set. Thanks, Seattle! I have basically run out of things I could reasonably get at the grocery store; I may hit Mr. B's Meadery this evening.
Glasses: on a hook attached to an elastic band around my forehead, and will be for the text three weeks.
Nerves: growing back slowly. I don't have much sensation at all in my lower front teeth. I'm kind of numb and tingly from my lower lip to my chin, and I have no sensation at all for a few inches behind the hairline incision.

Future:
Going bananas on my eyebrows in a week.
Maybe start taping just at night in a week? I need to ask the Sculptor's office.
Modular synthesizer makers on Thursday.
Blue Moon 5/26?
The Mercury's anniversary 5/30.

Yesterday morning I got back from my morning walk to the grocery store to find a Black woman in her thirties or forties on the walkway that leads from my street to my place and East Neighbors'. She was... sniffing the wooden fence. No, there's nothing fragrant on the other side of the fence, even if there are some big, beautiful plants.

People cut through there all the time – there's a parking lot and an apartment building east of my East Neighbors – and I don't get my undies in a bunch about it. I've done that kind of thing. But then I saw the collapsible wagon with a blanket on top underneath my front stairs. 'OK,' thought I. 'Let's hope that's temporary.'

And it was, until I got back from my evening trip to the grocery store*. The wagon was back, and a couple of hours later, she was in a sleeping back on the concrete steps (!) down to the Wendling's apartment, right below my front step. I told her, "Hey! My son lives there!" I didn't catch all of her reply, but she asked if I had a dryer she could use on her blanket.

I started working the phone. Calling 911 on a Black woman who's not acting threatening is... not great. It could lead to someone getting shot. So, I called the police non-emergency number, which referred me to the crisis line, which I called. They took my info and someone took my info. Handled, right?

But neau. An hour goes by, and my inner Karen makes me call the crisis line again. "How late should I stay up?" I ask.
"We don't have an ETA."

Wayell, I woke up at 0515, and she was still there, now huddled against my son's front door to get out of last night's light rain. He opened the door and had words with her that I couldn't make out. I finally have enough and call 911. Our visitor packs up, but continues to hang out.

She skedaddled just minutes before the policeman showed up. I gave him the lowdown, and in return he told me this about the crisis line: they only have the resources to send people out between noon and 2100. Said the cop, if she comes back, call again.

First, that's not right. Of course people are going to call about homeless on their doorsteps when I did. That's when everybody looks for a place to sleep. Gosh, it's almost like a conspiracy to give the cops more to do. Second, information about the current state of this suckage would have been nice before or during my phone call with the crisis folks. Christ on a pogo stick!

And yes, I did call 911 on an apparently harmless Black woman with my expensively altered face. I'm aware of the optics. But you know what? My son shouldn't have to step over anyone to go to work.

Speaking of my son, he handled the whole thing with unexpected and admirable calm, sweeping up the visitor's cigarette butts and hosing down his doormat. He always seems to come through when I really need him to.

My place, and in particular the entrance to the Wendling's, are probably particularly attractive as a place to sleep outdoors: they're not visible from the street. Heaven help me, I'm wondering what I can to do to make it less appealing.



*As instructed by the Sculptor.

I just ate Korean mushroom ramen, which isn't spicy, with diced tofu. And applesauce. An actual more-or-less solid meal that I had to (gently) chew. O frabjous day!

It's such a weird feeling not to go 'Unnnnngh' every time I look in the mirror because of my brows & chin. Mind you, I'm not in love with my face yet because a) my eyebrows have run wild for six weeks, b) I can't yet pull hairs from my face, only shave, c) slight bruises (?) appear under my eyes when I get up and disappear by lunch, d) my face is finishing up peeling from the cast, and e) things are basically unsettled, especially around my mouth. But do I think I'll eventually be a satisfied patient? Yes.

I would like to state for the record that washing your hair when you have no sensation (back? yet?) in the top of your scalp is bizarre and difficult. And the prescription-strength dandruff shampoo that I'm using is particularly nasty if it gets in the eyes or mouth. And really, I'm supposed to leave it on for three minutes?

Yes, I know, this kind of surgery is mostly a rich bitch privilege and I should be grateful to even have this kind of problem. But that's hard to remember when your eyes are stinging.

I still don't quite have a solution for sleeping in the recommended position, i.e. with my back at a 45° angle to the horizontal. My camping recliner is almost there, but I think I need a sleeping bag with it. At the rate I'm going it'll be almost too late. My back's sensitivity is surely a sign of age.

Other things I've done that I shouldn't have according to a second reading of the post-op instructions: walk too long at once, carry too much weight (groceries), get busy with Clara*, and pull weeds.

I shall be buying foods today that I can eat when I go off liquids on Tuesday. Oh yes, I shall.



*The sex toy I designed.

The folks at the Seattle Erotic Art Festival have informed me that one of the two copies of my piece “Dysphoria Devil” has sold. That’s right, I’m about to get paid – a little – for my art.

I have no idea who bought it, but I hope that wherever it ends up, it makes at least one cis person think, however briefly, about what it must be like to be trans.

I have done my laundry a day earlier than usual because I'm about to pack for surgery. There's a stack of paper on my dining table including the Sculptor's instructions, my packing list, and my boarding pass. Yes, I'm that Xer.

I should perhaps clarify that I leave for San Francisco in less than 24 hours. My pre-op appointment is Monday, and my surgery is Tuesday morning.

Even if this trip weren't in the service of something I've wanted desperately for decades, it's definitely time for me to get out of Dodge. Work has been a frustrating grind lately, and it's been nearly eight months since I got back from New York.

In between laundry loads I bopped over to my favorite coffee joint for a mocha. I looked longingly at their baked goods, which are pretty great even if you haven't been denied carbs for two weeks. As soon as the Sculptor says it's OK I'm so having ramen and sake. I wonder if I can persuade Tacoma Girl to join me.

The weather here in Seattle has been glorious. Playing in my head on the way around Green lake on my bike this morning was "Dance: Ten; Looks: Three" from A Chorus Line.

Dental cleaning is tomorrow morning. I'm going to need written proof so I can send it to the Sculptor's office. I'll be doing that electronically from my dentist's office. I am not in the mood for any further delays in communication, because I'm damn near out of time.

Assuming all goes according to plan tomorrow, I continue on my booze-free, low-carb, low-sodium path to laundry, packing, a plane, and San Francisco, baybee.

If it were up to me, I'd make Thursday & Friday just go away.

The most social thing I've done this weekend is shop for groceries this morning. Believe it or not, that was a deliberate decision: I got scared into quarantining before surgery a while back.

I'd made plans earlier to visit Tacoma Girl, but it was a relief mixed with disappointment she bailed due to stuff going on in her life. I'd bought too many chocolate-covered almonds to share – no salt, no starch, no booze, remember? – and I ate about half of them, which was still too many. I felt so oogy that I went to bed around sundown last night.

I'll say this for myself, though: over the last couple of weeks I've opened up a can of whoop-ass on a reimplementation of the Lambert House front desk database. The plan for today, while the laundry progresses, is to do a little scale testing before I talk to our board member-and-network administrator about standing it up for real.