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 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.

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.

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.

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.”

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 need to keep traveling, being a gypsy, having experiences and writing about them.

Was it a light only she could see? A gypsy’s spell? A mystery?

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

I’ll always stand by my Gypsy roots, and I’ll always help out one of my own.

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.

Are you not scared by seeing that the gypsies are more attractive to us than the apostles?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that you never say no to an old gypsy woman with a blind eye and leprous fingernails.

On the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths, And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat: Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet. I will let the wind bathe my bare head. I will not speak, I will have no thoughts: But infinite love will mount in my soul; And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy, through the countryside – as happy as if I were a woman. “Sensation

What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we’ve just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how completely and how deeply faithless we are, which is to say: how true we are to ourselves.

I just really think every job I do, I get this gypsy attitude to money.

sure, we need the gypsies. we always have. because if you don’t have someone to run out of town once in a while, how are you going to know you yourself belong there?

This week, I’m a gypsy. Maybe next week it’ll be glitter rock.

There are a lot of us little gypsies out there that need to go and find another place you know. A safer, healthier or just a different venue in order to develop and find ourselves. I am so lucky to live the life that I do.

That’s the words: “So I’m back to the velvet underground” – which is a clothing store in downtown San Francisco, where Janis Joplin got her clothes, and Grace Slick from Jefferson Airplane, it was this little hole in the wall, amazing, beautiful stuff – “back to the floor that I love, to a room with some lace and paper flowers, back to the gypsy that I was.”

We still name our military helicopter gunships after victims of genocide. Nobody bats an eyelash about that: Blackhawk. Apache. And Comanche. If the Luftwaffe named its military helicopters Jew and Gypsy, I suppose people would notice.

I am a gypsy. I havent’ had a home for a long time. Call me a homeless person – I just throw everything in a bag and I’m good to go.