Michael Moorcock
TEXAS NOTEBOOK
R
eturning to the United States a short
while ago I received a stern talking
to from an immigration officer. Why
had I been in Paris longer than usual?
I’ve lived in the US for nearly 25 years.
I originally moved to be closer to my son,
who was being educated nearby, and to
my American wife’s relatives in Houston.
We bought an old house in a small town
about an hour from Austin. Built for
his new bride by the only Confederate
governor of Texas after he came back
from the civil war, it’s rather eccentric.
We fell in love with it immediately,
planning to live there for at least as long
as my son was in the US. What I hadn’t
reckoned on, in moving from London to
rural Texas, was that my immune system,
developed to deal with the particulate-
laden air of the city, would turn on me
and deliver a pretty nasty autoimmune
disease. I’d always said it was a serious
mistake to leave the city.
M
y son returned to London. Linda’s
sister moved away. By then I was
receiving outpatient treatment and it
was impractical to leave. However, I
routinely returned to Europe to see my
children and grandchildren. On this last
trip I stayed a little longer because I was
working on a variety of projects. Why,
demanded the armed officer as I peered
up from a wheelchair, had I not yet taken
US citizenship? People, she continued
grimly, might become suspicious of
my motives for remaining British. She
snapped my passport shut. ‘Better get
that citizenship!’ She seemed unaware
I can hold dual citizenship, but getting
it is expensive, time-consuming and I’m
terrible at tests. So I kept my mouth shut.
This was another example of the rise of
the officious little Trumps who now feel
free to act and speak according to their
petty prejudices. Once, when entering
the States, I felt I really was breathing
the air of freedom. Now, that air is polluted
with intolerance and ignorance. Even my
rejuvenated immune system isn’t up to
dealing with them much longer.T
he opioid epidemic appears to have
been handled more efficiently in
the UK and France than in Texas. As an
American doctor warned many years
ago, once you begin to treat a service as a
business, it inevitably begins to behave like
a business. This was demonstrated by the
US health service, where specialists have
proliferated, one of the relatively recent
innovations being ‘Pain Management
Clinics’ which now advertise on TV. For
some years only PMCs, not GPs, have beenable to prescribe Fentanyl, the powerful
stronger-than-heroin drug now popular
with dealers and addicts. I was put on
Fentanyl patches many years ago, the
dosage increasing a little at a time as the
efficacy decreases. Without it, I reach a state
where death is preferable to pain.T
he paranoid headlines about the drug
in media both fake and authentic have
led to many institutions running scared,
behaving exactly like a business, and
banning the stuff arbitrarily, without any
attention to patients’ needs. While I was
away, a good friend was suddenly refused
further Fentanyl by our clinic. ‘Then what
on earth can I do?’ he asked. Use marijuana
instead, the doc airily advised. Except for
epilepsy treatment, marijuana is seriously
illegal in Texas. My friend was told to break
the law or suffer. Luckily I found a new
clinic, but word is that the Texas Medical
Board plans to disallow prescriptions for
far lower dosages than I need. No doubtI’ll soon be seen shuffling down
to Austin’s Drug Alley trying to score
some weed.A
t least Texas feels more immigrant-
friendly than New York. Last
weekend I enjoyed the 90th birthday
party of a dear friend, a Federal judge.
Texas born and bred, his reading of
the Constitution would probably have
delighted its compilers. When I met
him 25 years ago I asked Frank what
he did. ‘Oh,’ he replied, ‘I have a little
business renting canoes on the river.’
A Pacific veteran, Frank remained
active in the law until a couple of years
ago. His party was a wonderful get-
together of Texas’s great and good
(tolerant, if conservative). Texas benefits
considerably from her border with
Mexico and it’s only the racists who
share Trump’s opinions. Frank’s friends
are a cross-section of our inhabitants,
including people from black, Mexican
and Muslim backgrounds.W
e mourned our mutual friend,
Gino Rubalcaba, a converted
Mormon of many skills, who died
unexpectedly while I was away. Gino
took great pride in his family. He was a
hunter and fisherman of considerable
dignity and self-respect, keeping all our
larders supplied. Now, in spite of his age
and his recent stroke, Frank is working
hard for Gino’s traumatised widow and
three adopted grandchildren. Like Gino,
Frank is what we used to call the best
type of American. Like many Texans, he
believes in small government, personal
responsibility and minimal political
controls. It would certainly eliminate a
vast majority of little Hitlers everywhere
if his ideas became the norm.Michael Moorcock’s many books include
The Whispering Swarm.Once, when entering the States, I felt
I was breathing the air of freedom.
Now it is pollut ed with intol eran ce