MICHAEL MOORCOCK
BLost Pines, Texas
ack home after two months. Linda and I drove to northern California and back with our two cats. Some 4.000 miles. A surprisingly smooth journey. The cats behaved considerably better than I did. We vacationed directly over the abyss in San Andreas Bay, near where Drake careened the Golden Hind on his way round the world. Good days with grey whales, waterbirds, sea lions, elk and deer. Great food, company, wine. Tuscany, USA. Lucky Texans tend to summer in the liberal North. In Mann County we read how a crime victim called the sheriffs office to report the theft of six marijuana plants. I remarked on this to a local officer. He shook his head in disgust. Such thieves were beneath contempt. Not much chance of finding the evidence now, though.
British TV gives the impression of the entire country weeping into flags or waving M-16s and swearing bloody revenge. Texans, it is assumed, must be weeping and waving the most vigorously. In fact, under the 'x' in Texas we're mostly doing outreach stuff. Books on Islam sell steadily now that Nostradamus's popularity has subsided. People discuss all sides in the conflict with painstaking care; not a single Arab hassled. The relatively few flags waving were, until recently. at half-mast.
Lst Pines's Lebanese restaurant is the only place displaying an inordinate number of Old Glories, but the local cowboys still wash down their hummus and pitta with mint tea and wish the owner a nice day as they leave. One pick-up truck has Confederate flag and Stars and Stripes decals, but no gunrack and no hound dog; not even a 'Nuke bin Laden' bumper sticker. There are public debates, and interfaith picnics and barbecues. Jews. Muslims and Christians assert their commonality on local TV. There is a fair amount of told-you-so-ing and rnea culpa-ing among liberal academics on PBS, but so far the Republic of Texas hasn't sent a single son to the crusade. In fact, after spending thousands on provisions, the local militiamen have disappeared into somewhere uncomfortable ready to withstand the first wave of 'terris'. The E–Z Pawn on the highway hardly has a gun left. Real patriots, they've done their bit for the local economy and withdrawn discreetly to the wilderness. What more could they do at a time of crisis?
0 ur house, the Circle Squared, was built of local timber in 1865 by the only Confederate governor of Texas. We live among old trees. Until December we enjoy
dreamy, extended autumns. Pecans and walnuts become plentiful, the light grows mistier, and in the woods you experience the extraordinary sound of the Houston toad. There is always some casual bloodshed going on outside. Recently, a large hawk stooped on our cat. Bill was meditating on the lawn, minding his own business. Almost too late the hawk realised that Bill was slightly too big for him, and performed an impressive mid-air brake. As the days narrow down to a precious few, I prefer to forget the buzzards amiably circling over the old spread.
0 ur best friend in Lost Pines is black, an ex-Washington insider now doing A.J. Cronin-type projects to bring cheap medical attention to the (mostly white) rural poor. Linda is impressed by Colin Powell's deft handling of the terrorist situation. Many Democrats I know are saying that they'd vote Republican if he stood for president. Linda thought that Powell would have a good chance of winning. With a shake of the head, our friend laughed. 'He's a black man, Linda. No way.' Powell would make an ideal modern president, Linda insisted. But our friend was adamant. 'He hasn't got a chance. He's black, Linda!' 0K.' Linda dropped her voice. 'Here's the deal. If you don't tell them, I won't tell them.' An ad on local TV: 'If your child has been introduced to Satanism by Harry Potter books, call this number. . . ' As far as I can make out, the ad has been placed by a commercial exorcism outfit. See what happens when you deregulate?
I'm getting ready for the Royal Festival Hall on 11 October when Ill be appearing there with Hawkwind. Thanks to satellites, I'll be performing with the hand in London while remaining at home with two startled cats. Of course I lose their respect, but I save a fortune in travel expenses, and there's absolutely no danger of my teeth flying into the audience. Austin rightly prides itself on its broad variety of live popular music. We also have a decent ballet and an improving symphony orchestra. Visiting the local Gilbert and Sullivan Society was, however, a disappointment. Great costumes, enthusiastic attack. Yet the splendid singers didn't know their drolleries from their parodies. We slipped away as the English tea was served by ladies in blazers.
It was a relief to drop in at the Gin-UWine Oyster Bar in Lost Pines, where gents who never take their hats off stand up to drink while playing Willie Nelson on the jukebox. I have some good friends there now. Initially, it was a bit touch and go. I felt obliged to inform my drinking compadres that I had last voted socialist, (i.e. NuLabor). The bar fell silent. Somewhere a piano stopped playing. Then a cowboy in a black ten-gallon Stetson rose over me, clapped his massive hand on my shoulder and growled, `Mahchael, ah gotta tell yuh. Yore a true Texan.'
I've done my share of dirty jobs, but never thought I'd be Tony Blair's speech-writer. It was Kipling or me. In my Warlord of the Air, Cpt. Bastable, a decent, idealistic British officer, NW Frontier, 1903, plunges into a future whose benign Pax Britannica is subtly maintained by armed paternalism and limited civil rights. Bastable offers 'enlightened' reasons for taking up the White Man's Burden, and I'll swear PM Blurr pinched that bit for his Brighton speech. Have I at last accurately predicted the future? I think so. This means that by Christmas the editor of this paper will declare the Henley Commune; Zeppelin stocks will be hot; Imperial Chinese flying iron-clads will liberate Balham: the Stuart flag will fly over free Southwark; France will apply to rejoin the United Kingdom; and England will win the World Cup. That's right, dear reader. The end of civilisation as we know it.
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