Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up

21.4.05

Milano

What is that previous cryptic post supposed to mean? That I flee south for Milan, seeking a place where I know no dealers, where the food is good, the women beautiful, the weather clement... Somewhere to get healthy again... I walk onto the plane with a ginger beer bottle full of methadone and a mineral water bottle of liquid ketamine for my old friend C__.

Know him from early London years when he was, by his own description, a complete bum. So was I, come to think of it. Now conscientious worker and early riser, owner (!) of an apartment in what the Italians call a palazzo (block built around internal courtyard) on the outskirts of Milan. He's house-sitting for his adoptive Italian family and I'm left, mostly, to my own devices, until Mr Carah of bostumana (look sidebar, motherfucker) join me...

I sweat... shiver... pace... sweat... shiver... Drink cheap red with lorazepam to oblivion... By day 5 I am still sick... Hot flushes, cold burns... By day 5 I crumble... I live next to a bombed-out derelict block which seems to be full of Maroccy smack-dealers speaking the same half-ass Spanish as me... There are shifty Maroccy types smoking heroin off foil in every damn dumped car with a smashed-in windshield...

I cry to myself and then feel pleased to still have emotions and then feel self-loathing for my sentimental snivelling self-pity... I'm queing junk-sick in the supermarket and there is that Manu Chao song on the radio Que voy a hacer, je ne sais plus... and I choke back tears again... miserable fucking self-pitying excuse for a human...

I give up trying to give up and start shooting this grey-brown excuse for heroin here up my arm again... Retitle realgem, this proud ummm whatever it was meant to be... experiment in narrative or independent journalism, retitle it Weblog of a Dope Fiend... Where will this all end?

Faced with a power so eminently greater than myself, with news of the new Pope (the cowardly Obersturmbannpontiff Ratzinger... this man is supposed to be the closest person to God on this earth? Read some discussion here...) on every front page and TV channel, thoughts turn to religion... Wish I could pray... Perhaps I should go on pilgrimage to Rome... Perhaps that's what I'll do, this summer... Take the "Strange Road" to Santiago de Compostela...

When I return to London (it doesn't matter where I am any more) I will publish the 2nd of my series of things I can't find anywhere on the internet... A special translation of the Inqaar-e-Iblees of Allama Iqbaal, in which Satan the rebellious angel addresses God... Something to look forward to for you, my bizarrely increasing readership...