The news that the 12th incarnation of Doctor Who - the BBC's flagship sci-fi series, and a sacred pop culture cow to some - has been announced, and it is Peter Capaldi, that sweary Scot from that poli-sci show - is a bit of a let down. If one considers that Britain's leading TV/film icons of serial success - James Bond, the Doctor, Harry Potter, Sherlock Holmes, Poirot, Robin Hood - are white males - it might have been hoped that, this not being 1963, but rather fifty years later, the Beeb might have actually made the good Doctor a woman, or someone of Black, or Asian - or Other - descent. It might have actually been thrilling to ask that chap from The Marigold Hotel, for instance - or Gillian Anderson. Of course, Idris Elba would have been great - but he was likely busy, given he will win the Oscar this year for playing Mandela. Capaldi is a brilliant comedic actor of extraordinary timing and energy. His Doctor Who will be fun and thrilling. What he won't be is much of a new thing in the universe.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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