Of Dishwashers and Sinead O'Connor
Jul. 27th, 2023 09:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraI honestly think loading a dishwasher could be a definitive test for diagnosing the onset of dementia.
I’m not talking OCD dishwasher-loading here or competitive dishwasher-loading (best demonstrated in the underrated Jonathan Demme flick Rachel Getting Married in which daddy Bill Irwin humiliates daughter Anne Hathaway by demonstrating the only correct way to do it.)
But there does need to be some kind of system, right?
And that system should follow the sizing elements in the racks to some degree.
And the dishwasher should not be turned on until some effort is made to fill it. (Wasting energy: bad! Wasting water: bad! Etc, etc, etc)
If my theory is true, then L is in the early stages of dementia.
Which makes me nervous.
###
I was a bit pissed off by the universal outpouring of ❤️LUV❤️ for Sinead O’Connor following the news of her death yesterday.
Where were all you assholes when Sinead O’Connor was alive and an outpouring of ❤️LUV❤️ might have uplifted her troubled soul and helped her somehow?
But, of course, that’s me being judgey again on the basis of no information whatsoever.
People may have reached out to Sinead O’Connor all the time. Sinead O’Connor may have blown them off. Sinead O’Connor was a difficult person by all accounts, including her own.
###
My most vivid recollection of Sinead O’Connor is as the hallucinated Virgin Mary in Neil Jordan’s absolutely brilliant but incredibly dark film The Butcher Boy:
Sinead O’Connor as a Virgin Mary hallucination is brilliant casting, and The Butcher Boy is a masterpiece, but I can’t honestly recommend it—and even if I could, no one could ever watch it because it seems to have disappeared right off the face of the planet.
Its DQ (Depression Quotient) is up there with Requiem for a Dream and The Road, but unlike those movies, The Butcher Boy is also extremely funny, which makes it even more depressing because what kind of human being laughs at horrible stuff like the shit that happens in The Butcher Boy? If you’re laughing, you must be a very bad human being.
###
I liked her voice. Admired her resistance to being commercialized. Was moved by the beauty of her face—which reminded me of Renée Falconetti’s face in Carl Dreyer’s Joan of Arc. (Must have been the hair, right?)
And was moved by the lyric intensity of her grief following her son’s suicide: He was the love of my life, the lamp of my soul. We were one soul in two halves. He was the only person who ever loved me unconditionally.
Lamp of my soul is a staggeringly lovely phrase.
###
On the purely mundane and personal front, we’re under a Heat Advisory until tomorrow.
Apparently, the heat dome suffocating the lower states has migrated north.
I’m not talking OCD dishwasher-loading here or competitive dishwasher-loading (best demonstrated in the underrated Jonathan Demme flick Rachel Getting Married in which daddy Bill Irwin humiliates daughter Anne Hathaway by demonstrating the only correct way to do it.)
But there does need to be some kind of system, right?
And that system should follow the sizing elements in the racks to some degree.
And the dishwasher should not be turned on until some effort is made to fill it. (Wasting energy: bad! Wasting water: bad! Etc, etc, etc)
If my theory is true, then L is in the early stages of dementia.
Which makes me nervous.
###
I was a bit pissed off by the universal outpouring of ❤️LUV❤️ for Sinead O’Connor following the news of her death yesterday.
Where were all you assholes when Sinead O’Connor was alive and an outpouring of ❤️LUV❤️ might have uplifted her troubled soul and helped her somehow?
But, of course, that’s me being judgey again on the basis of no information whatsoever.
People may have reached out to Sinead O’Connor all the time. Sinead O’Connor may have blown them off. Sinead O’Connor was a difficult person by all accounts, including her own.
###
My most vivid recollection of Sinead O’Connor is as the hallucinated Virgin Mary in Neil Jordan’s absolutely brilliant but incredibly dark film The Butcher Boy:
Sinead O’Connor as a Virgin Mary hallucination is brilliant casting, and The Butcher Boy is a masterpiece, but I can’t honestly recommend it—and even if I could, no one could ever watch it because it seems to have disappeared right off the face of the planet.
Its DQ (Depression Quotient) is up there with Requiem for a Dream and The Road, but unlike those movies, The Butcher Boy is also extremely funny, which makes it even more depressing because what kind of human being laughs at horrible stuff like the shit that happens in The Butcher Boy? If you’re laughing, you must be a very bad human being.
###
I liked her voice. Admired her resistance to being commercialized. Was moved by the beauty of her face—which reminded me of Renée Falconetti’s face in Carl Dreyer’s Joan of Arc. (Must have been the hair, right?)
And was moved by the lyric intensity of her grief following her son’s suicide: He was the love of my life, the lamp of my soul. We were one soul in two halves. He was the only person who ever loved me unconditionally.
Lamp of my soul is a staggeringly lovely phrase.
###
On the purely mundane and personal front, we’re under a Heat Advisory until tomorrow.
Apparently, the heat dome suffocating the lower states has migrated north.
