May. 14th, 2017

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Back in Birmingham. I miss [personal profile] cybermule . I miss the West Country. We watched Jim Jarmusch's Only Lovers Left Alive midweek and it's the only vampire film I need. I love Tilda Swinton's Eva so much: otherworldly, deep in love with the world; able to tell the age of a guitar at a touch, knowing the Latin name of each living creature she encounters. The echoing wrecks of Detroit are gorgeous. I just wish there'd been more of John Hurt's Kit Marlowe in it. Spent a happy forty minutes in Gloucester's Quayside Books and came away with Liz Berry's Black Country as a gift for H, Wu Ch'eng-En's Monkey (I've got vague vague memories of the Japanese live action series being broadcast in the early eighties, though I'm pretty sure the English overdubbing would just make me hurl now) and a book on Chinese puppet theatre by a Soviet puppeteer; reading these last two alongside Frances Horovitz's collected poems. H took me on a drive around the hills above Stroud and we had beer and sandwiches at Laurie Lee's local pub. It doesn't seem so high up there until your ears pop with a cellophane-y sound. Three Chinook helicopters whirled over the fields.

The new Doctor Who is going from strength to strength. What a pity Peter Capaldi should go now. The Doctor (for me, anyway) is always best as a subversive and last night Twelve was giving deep-space capitalism the middle finger. I love him, his not-so-post-punkness, the mixture of gruff kindness and intellectual detachment, the unobtrusive velvet coat and hoodie. I love Bill. They've come up with a gay WOC companion and managed to not sexualise her. Can we have her stay on, please?

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