Dirty, Stinking, Singing, Hippie Gypsies
Dirty, Stinking, Singing, Hippie Gypsies
by Elmore Snoody
The Dirty, Stinking, Singing, Gypsy Hippies, or The Dirty, Hopping, Stinking, Singing, Dancing Gypsy Hippies, were so named by the least stinking of the band of smelly songsters, a man named Stuart Smith, who theatrically committed suicide by severing his aorta with a butcher knife in front of a community day care center almost immediately after conceiving both un-ironic designations.
The band of smelly â€œsingersâ€ were not precisely vagrants, but really more like avant-garde balladeers, who would remove to small towns and neighborhoods and dance through the streets singing â€œsongsâ€ and getting caught up in violent physical contests with each other. Where they came from seems to be unknown. Since the police were afraid of them, the stinking gypsies have remained free to troupe about in tatters, looking like shit, balalaikas and mandolins hanging over their shoulders and smacking against their mangy bellies as they barrel along, careening ahead with unfettered feathers, drawling out their disconcerting compositions, mostly a cappella by day and with instruments at night. They rarely are much for enunciating their words when they speak or sing, which is probably just as well, since their frequently obscene dance moves emphasize their existence plenty.
No vengeance lunges through a prison yard with as much swiftness as the dirty gypsies bypassing a tract housing area via a construction site, during which navigation the wide-eyed builders of those antiseptic communities step aside and regard us with astonishment. Passersby, as well, on all roads, trails, and parks, pause to observe the progress of the animal the dirty gypsies are, the gypsies never more than barely aware of them.
I guess what they do isnâ€™t all bad â€“ we do get our exercise. But the slimeâ€¦! The stink and goo on their gyrating flesh! For these disgusting down-and-outers humanity is just a pretext for where the soul should be, a space which exists, probably, but if so only as a carnal web upon which the west wind can spew forth its toxins.
My own involvement with the hippies has been brief, doubt-ridden, and intense. Because I always feel out of place due to my lack of musical talent (I am thoroughly tone-deaf), for that same reason I am conspicuous and exposed to scrutiny from within and without. The self-consciousness my tin ears impose on me distracts me from the hidden meanings of the gypsiesâ€™ songs; likewise, by blurry vision (I fear I am going blind) distracts me from the hidden meaning of their dance moves â€“ specific bodily agitations containing much more significance than might appear to an observer on the sidelines â€“ dance moves which might signify anything from nothing to an early evening handjob to a hard kick in the scrotum just as the inattentive witness, for whom that dayâ€™s hip-waggle was executed, is trying to drop off to sleep. That swing of the arm, the way a thigh might be slowly lifted, the way a leg extends perpendicularly, that unavoidably impressive little mound that bu
lges from an upraised, curving buttock — more charming than life itself — with the insistence of a very wise bird dog, before a resurgence of frenetic movement â€“ these are things of identity and fate.
This mode of detection is wearisome not only for me â€“ these dirty mothers look so exhausted after a day of physical agitation that they can barely put their night-slippers on without fucking themselves up. The ancient seers who divined the future from the flight-patterns of eagles had it easy. Additionally, I am distracted from trying to understand and in dread lest some stranger from the past, whose pretentious, richly cynical life philosophies I had at one point in the past shared in jubilantly sharing, should emerge in the form of a spectator and see me Â acting like such a dick.
To the stinking hippies, a reckless dance performed naked with a hatchet is the embodiment of high art. This is why dance and fight assimilate each other so easily. A first gypsy, with feigned carelessness or through a mistake, grazes or stabs a second gypsy with a knife. If the wound is fatal, then usually all is forgiven. So it is that retribution for physical assault â€“ should the victim live — seems arbitrary and elusive; payback for the first offense can be either a sexual favor or a kick in the first gypsyâ€™s genitals, administered by a third stinker indirectly related to the wounded, second hippie â€“ and any one of these hippies could be the nicest person you ever met.
Their body odor, on the other hand, is not ambiguous. They smell. If they were to clean themselves, it wouldnâ€™t be for the sake of hygieneâ€¦ Yet they donâ€™t smell as bad to me as they did at first… Which may mean that I might be starting to smell tooâ€¦ So if some of us manage to retain our good looks, this is the ever-ephemeral glow of youth and not concern for our bodies; we fiends of mutilation, whether mutilating ourselves or each other, all but purposely knock our own teeth out for aesthetic effect.
Feathers fall from the sky and turn into birds or butterflies like fickle leaves as we barrel through the streets, our clothes, at best, rags, soldiers fatigues extracted from dull colors, as we thunder incontinently down the lanes of life, past slums, trailer parks, tract-housing developments â€“ but generally the stinking hippies prefer the suburbs. Not all of life is there, after all, to frighten us, maim us, jackhammer our bones into fine particles of dust, etc., so we continue to conduct our bodily agitations with our hands on our genitals, our eyes on the horizon â€“ with our messy noise bang-ups we are fondling at once ourselves and our instruments just as a masturbating conductor would kick-start a lazy penis with a symphony. We tramp mercilessly into the day and night.
The sun will set and camp is set up. The Gypsies take out their instruments and tune them as best they can. â€œSongsâ€ are played, mandolins and banjoes, balalaikas and violins strummed, plucked, bowed. Genitals are fondled. The drunk, throbbing gyrations of the music induce a female gypsy to grind out an erotic dance, which is nothing fancy, of course, just a lot of pelvic thrusting. The men get sexually aroused or angry. One will throw a stone at another, who will, in turn, leap up to grab the otherâ€™s forearm in a vice. Their bodies recoil and stumble awkwardly as with his free hand each shoves at his opponentâ€™s chest. It does look like a dance, somewhat. Meantime, the features of the striplings reveal themselves on the periphery of the campfireâ€™s light. For them violence without the artifice of dance is generally regarded as a stupid anachronism. They are romantics. But they can nonetheless frequently be fonder than anyone of capricious violence.
The children and the striplings draw closer to the campfire, regarding us with derisive curiosity. Striplings: Little feral striplings clutching rusty bugles and saxophones, machetes; striplings rebellious to such extremes even the most criminally insane among us quakes with fear when we see the little bastards. The earth itself seems to have sprouted genitals through these tattered little monsters. The priapic, insolent expressions on their faces are shocking and disgusting to me; I look at one in the shadows and wonder if he is conjuring up an erection to ram me with through my heart.
Women continue cutting ugly capers which are, for that reason, unspeakably beautiful; they thrust around their flesh, stomping the ground like angry horses. A man gets up and undoes his corduroys, ratchets them down, and squeezes the skin of his scrotum between his index and middle fingers, leaving his testicles dangling in the night air. He jumps around, screaming. Another man struts around, feigns a moment of illumination, only to run away and loudly defecate in a nearby briar patch.
A stripling throws a large stone at the dancing man. It misses, and hits a young girl on the forehead. She starts crying, her mother carefully verifies the stone-throwing stripling even before attending to her daughter. Providing no force of the night will interfere, for the stripling and the mother of the girl the ambiguities for the next dayâ€™s dances have been born. Generally, these might be the things that partly define the gypsies â€“ their poorly-digested grief, inattention to basic manners, and their very much unacknowledged lack of discipline. Feelings arenâ€™t felt here so much as demolished.
It is day. We are navigating a typical suburban street corner. Two striplings are looming behind me, both dancing convulsively. The brunette is slow to make the cornerâ€™s turn; she separates from the mass of dissonant hippies and arcs past a lawn, repeatedly reemerging behind the white, vertically grooved columns of a large, gray Victorianâ€™s portico. It is hard to know whether her whirling describes her or her body describes her whirling. As if suddenly exhausted, she twirls through a neighboring lawn to gently reintegrate herself into this mobile hive of stinking hippies. Her bracelets slide down her forearms to her wrists as she lowers her arms, or her arms are lowered.
Past a second Victorian, across a river, three flocks of geese, god knows what compels them, fly sonorously around an abandoned smokestack, which, lifting its ambitious frame up from the bottom of the horizon, emerges from the muddy ground beyond the riverbank like a talisman just dropped from the sky to impale the redundantly disregarded earth.
Both striplings are closing in behind me. If I am to let the point of my boot drag on the stretch of grass between the sidewalk and the street for even an instant too long, they will see a weakness and overtake me. I stop, throw my leg back and lunge between them, throwing the retreating cowards off completely.
These residential areas are my favorite as well as that of the stinking hippiesâ€™, and the quaint suburban houses and the lawns and grounds obtain a resigned curiosity difficult to withstand. Shards of light splinter through the tree branches and gather on gables and flower beds like broken spearheads swimming through the shade. If by some chance some crafty gypsy has managed to find fresh strings for our guitars, the teardrops in our music might leave a large, glowing welt in the shade of a lonely pear tree.
Butterflies fly out from under the trees like tiny birds into the purple and white and blood-red clouds, clouds which always fade away when our tired eyes canâ€™t find them. Tree past tree, house past house, leaf past leaf, our eyes insist.
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Whoah, this is thiiiiiiick.