I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I've always seen myself as one of those 'show people.' My earliest memories are wanting and needing to entertain people, like a gypsy traveler who goes from place to place, city to city, performing for audiences and reaching people.
I move around a lot. Ive lived in a ton of different places - and only for a month or two at a time. I have a deep, rabid curiosity, so I like having a gypsy life.
For gypsies do not like to stay - They only come to go away.
It is impossible to imagine a more complete fusion with nature than that of the Gypsy.
Live a little be a gypsy, get around. Get your feet up off the ground, live a little, get around.
On tour I'm finding out that I am half gypsy, 40% vagabond, and 10 house cat.
There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't sit still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.
"Things have a life of their own," the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. "It's simply a matter of waking up their souls."
Was it a light only she could see? A gypsy's spell? A mystery?
The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the open clover, And the Gypsy blood to the Gypsy blood Ever the wide world over.
Today's Gypsies, who have lived in Prague for only two generations, light a ritual fire wherever they work, a nomads' fire crackling only for the joy of it, a blaze of roughhewn wood like a child's laugh, a symbol of the eternity that preceded human thought, a free fire, a gift from heaven, a living sign of the elements unnoticed by the world-weary pedestrian, a fire in the ditches of Prague warming the wanderer's eye and soul.
I guess I haven't gotten over being lost, a wandering gypsy.
I need to keep traveling, being a gypsy, having experiences and writing about them.
Artists make art. Singers sing. Players play. Gypsies travel. Music lights fires everywhere. It's like oxygen!
Ghost?” St. Vincent shot him an incredulous glance. “Christ. You’re not serious, are you?” "I’m a Gypsy,” Cam replied matter-of-factly. “Of course I believe in ghosts.” “Only half Gypsy. Which led me to assume that the rest of you was at least marginally sane and rational.” “The other half is Irish,” Cam said a touch apologetically. “Christ,” St. Vincent said again, shaking his head as he strode away.
Flamenco is Arabic music and rhythms filtered through centuries of gypsies making music. The gypsies themselves came originally from India. And then there is the Caribbean influences... This whole idea that there is any such thing in music that "purity" is bunk, it just doesn't exist. I love that I am playing these rhythms to people. And the next time they hear something that's maybe a little more exotic, I have created a little bridge, and they are going, "Oh, this actually sounds really cool. It reminds me a little bit of that, but it's something different."
She had acquired some of his gypsy ways, some of his nonchalance, his bohemian indiscipline. She had swung with him into the disorders of strewn clothes, spilled cigarette ashes, slipping into bed all dressed, falling asleep thus, indolence, timelessness...A region of chaos and moonlight. She liked it there.
I'll always stand by my Gypsy roots, and I'll always help out one of my own.
Are you not scared by seeing that the gypsies are more attractive to us than the apostles?
I travel like a gypsy, and I didn't know how I could perform and be a mother.
And I want to rock your gypsy soul Just like way back in the days of old And magnificently we will fold into the mystic
Gypsy dance is never just to be dancing. Instead it seems to be a part of an immense and significant non-verbal vocabulary of Gypsy communication and behavior. It is at the heart of an essential transformation, a transcended state, an escape from the realities of their daily lives to a more satisfying state of mind.
And I remember most of what I know that is good and true and lasting has come not from scholars but from minstrels and gypsies.
Art is an outsider, a gypsy over the face of the earth.
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