When Broke-Ass wrote the first entry of this ongoing eye-wateringly scatological rant almost a year ago, she had all but bubkes. Sure enough, she had her sparkly-minded schmushkies and Big Daddy, plenty to supply gratitude for a lifetimes. But other than that, she had a bilious humor and all but bubkes. Now, she’s written a memoir (In Spite of Everything–Lord, please buy it and feed the children), growing a lot of her own damn food, raising 20 odd chickens, working on three kinds of stress-related illnesses, and is moving to Philly, where it is possible far, far from guaranteed that she might be able to wring out a living.
But today, in particular, she’s on the cover of The New York Times Sunday Review. Were it not for the encouragement of you beloveds and Thomas Merton, she’d never have heaved herself out of the compost to even pitch the story.
So, Broke-Ass would like to thank you. Even the few who have sent her mean messages (though maybe not quite as much–they really did sting). When you’re scatological and grouchy, people can assume that you’re really doing just fine. But you’re not.
When you live on the edge as Broke-Ass and the schmushkies do, the most punishing consequence is the loss of faith and heart. You wonder how, and if, you can keep on keeping on. There seems to be no evidence that any of one’s work comes to anything but more bubkes. One feels, simply, like giving up. Sometimes, one does.
But the vitality rendered from the kindness of strangers ends up being more than a hackneyed line from a storied fallen aristocrat. It ends up being for real.
Broke-Ass is finally feeling as though she may be able to peel herself off of the floor of the crap-layered chicken coop and do something actual.
Thank you for your help. Thank you so much.