MY WORKS

It is a typical beautiful day in Mexico City. I am finishing my morning writing. I'm trying to inspire myself to go to the gym around the corner and hit the weights.

My Facebook is down. I received a notice that I needed to go through a process that would assure me greater security. Facebook advised me I had to complete the procedure by a certain date. The date had already passed. Is this Facebook's new method for closing down a site? I will summon my computer gurus when I return to Brownsville. I can trust them to have a solution.

I wasn't interested in greater security. In Russian when Putin and his government want greater security his police or military eliminate you. I'm a fan of Facebook. It allows me to disseminate more of my writings as well as give me access to photographs. I am a digital Peeping Tom.

Computers are fickle. One day the internet is haywire and the next day everything is normal. Perhaps the anonymous censors at Facebook will realize that I don't need extra security. Perhaps Facebook isn't a big fan of mine.

I still have Google, but it isn't like it hasn't closed me down previously. It excised my El Puro Pedo  blog when I went from a tabloid to the internet. The company issues this advisory: We can close you down without notice and without reason.

One day my writing will come to an end. I have my stories saved on Goggle, my books published on Amazon and four plastic boxes filled with written pages and old publications to which I contributed. 

I have this sinking feeling that all my hard work will disappear without leaving a trace. It's a dreary thought. My own family will be the first to dump my literature and journalism in the garbage. They have been my worst critics. 

Not that I don't have regrets. I have many regrets. When your family is in tatters, not much else matters. But there isn't much I can do. Like me, they will live out their lives and then disappear. Their anger with me and my ire with them will amount to nothing. 

The bombs will eventually fall and we will be shattered into a thousand pieces. Somebody in the future a hundred thousand years from now will be taking an evening stroll, find a fragment of a bone, study it for a second and then toss it aside. We imagine ourselves as a whole, but even now we're millions of fragments loosely held together on the verge of disintegration.

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