Archive for the about Me… Category

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Posted in about Me... on June 4, 2011 by gypsygies

Dreamhost review

notes from the night (Sat)

Posted in about Me... on December 20, 2009 by gypsygies

First off – I will post below my thoughts on my way to work and for awhile after I got to work. But understand in posting them that no, I’m not trying to whine or boast or anything other than what I say. I wasn’t sad. I was “thoughtful”. ponderous. Me. lol
was thinking some about my history.

notes from my night –

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Definitely a conspiracy – the cafeteria has only DIET Mt Dew. They have all regular of other drinks (Pepsi, Coke, Dr Pepper) but only  5 rows of DIET Mt Dew. That’s crap.

I remember back in 10th grade my English teacher made us keep this Journal. Sometimes she would give us subjects which we were supposed to write about but we would also get bonus points for our own composition of some sort in the journal. The subjects she generally gave us to write about had something to do with school sports or spirit of which I had nothing to say. I literally remember one question was “How do you feel about our school football team?” and my supposed to be 3-paragraph answer was “I don’t care.”. That was all I could muster to say – completely blank otherwise. Perhaps, after the few college semesters I’ve had, I could bullshit may way through 3 paragraphs of `not interested’ but I’m still skeptical.

I would have failed that whole project, a quarter of our grade by semester end, if it hadn’t been for the bonus composition points. The shy and quiet and troubled me, had in desperation knowing I had no paragraph answers for her on her questions…mustered the strength to write some poetry in the journal. Share my writing. She was impressed enough she actually *questioned* whether it was mine ! I remember in red ink the “Yours?” written on the corner. A similar note on another piece. She did give me points for it and I responded to each journal question with a Yes – not sure if I should be offended or not. At semesters end there was to be this big “talent” display and she pressed me to read my poetry. I would not. Then she got with some other teachers and they set up that those who could not read their works, their writing could be displayed on the walls, like a museum. Oddly enough, I cannot remember what happened with that – whether or not I did that or not. All I remember all these years later was how much that teacher liked my words. Someone was offering me encouragement, instead of discouragement.
I don’t really remember what I wrote in that journal, other than one of the poems was a scolding letter from Mother Nature to mankind. Even then, before it was hip, I was disgusted at the way we treat our planet. But I digress…

I remember that teacher wanted me to send it in to the newspaper. I remember that teacher had talked to my mother about my writing.

By my junior year, the teachers had convinced my mother I could at least write poetry. The news from my 10th grade teacher had spread and some bowling partner of my mothers requested I write a poem for her wedding. Me? Write something for someone else specifically for their occasion? It was bizarre. Uncomfortable. Someone I didn’t even know. But I was too nice and too flattered to say no. I would have been mortified to be considered rude. I did not go to that wedding but am aware that whatever I wrote for them was read to the crowd during their vows. My senior year, my mother got married again and had me do the same. This time I had to be there, but it was a small ceremony and I remember the poem was read for the crowd in our Living Room! I think we were too poor to rent anyplace to have the wedding. I tried desperately to hide behind the corner to the kitchen.

Somehow in all this, Mother still never got the message that her youngest daughter could do more. Could Be more. And so that was the deflated message she always sent to me. I remember when I was 16 and at the grocery store with her, she insisted on teaching me to properly bag groceries, and I quote “so that when you’re a grocery checker you’ll be trained already”. I called her on it right then and there with a snide “Oh thanks Mom” and she glanced sheepishly at our checker and they both knew she had slipped. Let out of her mouth her great expectations of me. And I caught it.

Then the school counselors started talking about this word “college” that I had no idea what it actually was or meant. And every time I asked mom about it her response was this: “College isn’t for people like us.”. If pressed for what that meant she’d explain that my siblings got their “smarts” from their Father (whom we don’t share). She meant to be putting herself down but was putting me down as well. Then she’d make reference to “the rich people” and how that’s something that rich and smart people do. It’s not for us. The two times I asked my school counselors about it, as we were *supposed* to be having meetings with them to talk about College – both times my counselor swiftly pushed aside the foreign word and tried to bully me into the National Guard. At this late point in my life, I’m sure they must get kickbacks of some sort – he was just so aggressive about it. I remember even saying, at the last meeting, something to the effect of “what part of `No’ is confusing?!”. I left High School still with no concept even of what college was other than the information that it `wasn’t for people like us‘. I wasn’t in the Smart or Rich class of people.

My mind just jumped further back. I remember Mr. Sanchez..my 5th grade teacher…my favorite teacher. A good man who really cared about his students (and the next year became the Vice Principle at the junior high I would be attending). Mr Sanchez held meetings about me because, at varying moments, he thought I was “gifted” or possibly “epileptic” but not sure which. Odd? Gifted because I could always spell Big words but not Small words. I could spell things like “conscientious” but not most 3 or 4 lettered words. Seriously. Epileptic in some way because I would completely space out in class and he’d be calling my name and they’d all be trying to get my attention and I was far away in some distant galaxy on an adventure. Or mostly asleep and in slumber. Sleep disorder was really that prevalent even in my youth but such things were never recognized in those days. I remember so many sleepless nights. And I later found out I was also anemic and had been all through youth (mom apparently knew, but did nothing). Mr Sanchez was the second teacher to take me aside and care. He noticed I wasn’t stupid, despite “odd” results on tests and he also noticed something was wrong.

I remember the other kids at that school always mistook me for someone ‘smart’ and would try to get me to do their homework. Which I always thought was funny. I was like ‘if *I* do your math you will be worse off!’. I never understood why they thought I was smart and always thought it was funny. I did not do well on tests, generally.”D” (ish) student and that’s when I didn’t throw away the homework on my way home. The TV and Blue Sky were more interesting.
Although I spoke…true that when I spoke, I spoke like an Adult and this always garnered me some embarrassed attention. People would point out, in front of me, to my mom that her young child sounded like a mature adult, they thought it was so cute. I was always so embarrassed. I was always more comfortable sitting at the adult table though than the child’s table..could never really relate to most children (other than my best friend Cindy). They were greedy and violent and talked weird, were hard to understand. I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just form a sentence. I just aged backward, really.
This is sort of funny because my best friend Cindy was the QUEEN of greedy and violent – she was the school bully! LOL. All the boys were terrified of her. But she and I had an understanding.

The first teacher to notice me and care was actually briefly my 2nd grade teacher. What was her name? Mrs Eun- something or other. I feel bad that I can’t remember her name. But she got in trouble for trying to help me. I was deathly deathly shy at the time and would only speak to my best friend Cindy. Mrs E~ noted I was neglected and pulled me aside after class to read to me. It was a simple thing. A kind thing. Nothing bad. But the other teachers needed drama in their lives and got all scandalized about a teacher showing attention to one kid. I remember them asking me about it and trying to phrase it in a way that made it sound Terrible…our reading sessions… but even at that age I was shy but headstrong and confused why a kind woman simply trying to open up a kid a little more…she’d offer me encouragement and get me to read, and read with me…what their issue was. There was nothing ever inappropriate at all. But people do need drama, so she got in trouble and had to leave. No teacher should spend time reading with a student after class! Times have changed a little now, but even so it’s still dependant upon who needs what kind of drama in the atmosphere and who makes everything into a scandal. People just thrive on that. That was my first scar from it.
I remember that teacher, once she got me to speak to her and read (shy and quiet…), she would ask questions about my home and the attention I received there…this intelligent woman had picked up that something was wrong. That I was invicible. No one read to me, my sister just older than me was the only one to teach me to write my name and the alphabet. I have been grateful to her my whole life for that little bit of attention. My sister was the only one and she was only a few years older than I. Mom was always at work or exhausted from it. Dad was at work, then came home and passed out in his chair. No one ever talked to me. This, that teacher picked up on. And promptly got in trouble for trying to be advocate for a child. It wasn’t considered OK at all in those days.

Halfway through my work night, 3AM, and the “I’m SO tired” exhaustion sets in .. :'(

Someone’s first name is “Waltraud”?? Was Walter just not interesting enough for them?

On A Desert Highway…

Posted in about Me..., Commentary, Uncategorized on December 10, 2009 by gypsygies

It is dark outside, and cold. Cloudy. Winter. But I am remembering the warm summer sky to fall into. Endless blue, it seems, until gravity sucks me back. . . .

And I’m driving now, I remember, on a lonely desert highway somewhere in the Rockies. 100 degrees plus in July and the heat vent fully open…drawing from the engine so it doesn’t overheat because something…is broken. Spray bottle to keep myself cooled down as the windows let the hot, dry air blow over me. I stop at some small town settled into the rocks here. At a small café I sit with the locals, and listen. Men too long in the sun, skin so red and tough like leather. Most of the teeth gone. Tables and tables of them, eating their mid-afternoon meals, like me, because it is too hot to do anything else. They talk of the weather, they talk of drought, they talk of the food specials of the day, and one man tells of his wife’s inability to do laundry without staining it. This causes much laughter among us…us, now…solidarity in our temporary escape of the desert sun. Men that are ageless because of their time in the sun – looking eighty, but could be forty. Men that are raceless because of their time in the sun – maybe once Euro-Caucasian, but now each of them as red as the native to this land. Men that belong here, somehow, in the crevices of these rocks…making their living out of…out of what? Out here in nowhere land, the place in the sun where cowboys ran, mining was once the trade. Is it still? Are these rocks full of gold for these café patrons? But I do not ask them questions. I spend several hours there…just listening. Smiling, agreeing, and listening.

Back on the highway, back in the sun, and it is here in the strange afterglow of these men that I am suddenly contemplating direction, and time, and the space that a life takes place in. I reach for the camera in the seat beside me, suddenly inspired to try for a picture of what is in front of me, and what is behind me, at the same time (through use of the rear-view mirror). Click and I am satiated. Soothed by the motion. Contented to be everywhere at one time, by being anywhere at any time. Contained by nothing but motion. Soothed by a rhythm of constant change. Now here, now here, now…here.


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I have the shittiest narrative voice on the planet, but something prompted me to read this anyway. So – here.

On A Desert Highway

motion and structure

Posted in about Me..., Uncategorized with tags , , on November 10, 2009 by gypsygies

What does the world eventually do with people like me? People whose “roots” are more in the abstract sense, and spread about the world… instead of grounded in one space. People like me. They do exist, right? It’s not that we’re not “grounded”…it’s just that we are high & low simultaneously. Exist on plural levels…and therefore, I suppose, blurry to the rest of normal society. Those who are “structure” instead of constant “structuring” may idolize us, romanticize us…but not really understand us…and therefore, in part, criticize us.

I look back at my life….a year here, 2 years there, 7 there…and I realize that even in my most “still” moments, I am in constant motion. Even now…when feeling my life is stagnate…moving toward nothing…I realize it is the sheer lack of permanent grounding…”placing”… that keeps the blur of motion. It’s not that I’m moving, but that I could be in motion at any given moment. It’s not that I don’t want a permanent home, but more that I cannot be chained there. “Sit – Stay!”. Not like my friends…like Dave…who finds a spot and claims it. The whole WORLD is my “spot”. More so, and much less so, than for someone like him. Poverty keeps me from it, and he will get to see it. But something inside of me…the motion, I suppose…belongs to it anyway.

random expressing

Posted in about Me..., Uncategorized with tags , , on September 28, 2009 by gypsygies

sometimes I love the uncertainty in this world. Others love their routines, find comfort in decisions already made, the same as before, decided for them, without pain or stress, carried along by a stream of routines that lends them comfort. I love that I do not know quite the color of the sunrise tomorrow. That I am not God, not in control. That something I have never thought of may yet occur, outside of me, changing me, challenging me to break, waking my pure Defiance, calling me Mortal. Jubilant recklessness of the Universe. Order and Chaos do not have to be at odds. For how would we know we were in one, without the other? Order brings comfort, brings conscious sleep. Awake, but sleeping still. But I love that not knowing the sunset outside of me, outside of the bounds of my control, keeps me Wondering. We only wake when we can sleep no more. When something more alive than we causes us to stir. Many find more stress in this than comfort. They turn to the God of pages. The God written by Man in a book, with lines, rules, judgements. The God that forces Order on the Chaos. The God that tells you how to be. But I smile above me, all around me, at the God that exists with no distinction between Order and Chaos, the God that simply Is, and Loves without rules, lines, judgements. Consciousness unchained, unbound, untamed. The God that does not Know, but does not need to. This liveliness is my religion. Some, many, call it my weakness. My inability to to find great comfort in the Control, within those lines of society. But I consider it my greatest Strength. Defiance to the end.

The Psychology of Wanderlust

Posted in about Me..., Commentary, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on February 14, 2009 by gypsygies

“If I don’t end up where I was going, I’ll just end up somewhere Else.” (Me)


Sept 16, 2008:


That phrase came into play yesterday (Saturday). I was headed south out of town toward Goliad, TX. Somewhere along my sunny day drive, I lost the road I was supposed to be on, realized I was on some other highway instead. Headed to who-knows-where. Well, it was a nice road, though. So I just kept going. I was having a good time. I have no map in the car, which is a bit funny really. Back in my Grinnell days, no matter how poor I was (and oh I was) I somehow always managed to have a nice big Rand McNally. Nowadays, I cannot actually afford to buy a Rand McNally – hell that’d use the little bit of gas money I’m driving on! So I’m flying down some unknown road going wherever and having a great time of it. Singing old Indigo Girls toons at the top of my lungs (windows are down – everything is loud!). Eventually I have to stop for gas and managed to pick up a fold-up map. Which, inside of 10 minutes, had flown out the open window and down into a creek I was passing over. I totally laughed and decided at that point that clearly God had a better plan
in mind for me today and I was just going to have to go with it. LOL. Somewhere after 6pm I realized I was quite starving and stopped in some unnamed town (literally, the place had NO name announcement sign when I rode in)  – just a few shacks and a Dairy Queen (thus reminding me that Dairy Queen OWNS all small towns). Some guy there asked me where I was going and I actually replied a casual, chipper “I’m waiting to find out. But the speed is good and the sun is shining.” and smiled and walked away. Later I realized wow, he must have been really confused LOL. Answer made perfect sense to *me*.

Eventually I turned off onto some other highway-looking road. I don’t know why. Just seemed like the thing to do at the time. Wouldn’t ya know it? That road actually led to the original road I was
supposed to be on, but had lost. So I arrived in Goliad, TX. I got where I was going, but by a different route. Which, to me, is like having my cake and getting to eat it, too. I got to see stuff I didn’t know I was going to get to see. Very cool little towns, amazingly beautiful, serene Texas countryside, cool ranches (one with Safari-type trees, instead of native ones – yet it seemed to
fit in perfectly beautifully). I always have the best trips when I don’t care where I’m going, or really how I get there. The park I was headed to was closed by the time I got there, but I didn’t care at all. I was peacefully happy to simply arrive and turn back toward the road. It seems I am not a woman of Destinations. I’m a woman of Motion. My destination is my own – in my own mind’s
future.


Out there on a road somewhere is who I am. I’ve spent the past dozen years, literally, trying to be what my fan club wants of me. I realized out there that I gained their admiration so many years
ago for just this trait: Motion and unchained Freedom. But at the same time, somehow, they also disrespect me – the same traits that they admire, they disrespect, because it means I will never calm down, settle, be “stable” (by society’s definition). I will always be poor. On the edge of death, with a crappy half-broken car and no food. But a little bit of gas and a beautiful day. I have been told, and somehow believed it for so many years, that there’s something *wrong* with me. That I’m unhealthy, somehow, because I can’t STAY. “Sit! Stay!”. Out there yesterday I realized that I am not. It isn’t unhealthy – it’s who I AM. There are a myriad of traits within the human race and it’s so wrong to insist that everyone settle within the same lines and values. What’s unhealthy is to try to restrain my traveling blood and build up a portfolio of Cubicle and Promotion and Suit and House, Kids, Pension. These things that society wants are too costly for me. They don’t *fit*. And so I have spent 12 years trying to adjust myself to my life’s circumstances. I was not born stunningly beautiful, the voice of someone like Alison Krause, wealthy or highly educated. My life circumstances are mediocrity at best – average attraction (everyone seems to know someone who looks like me, so I must be fair common LOL), no outstanding entertainment talents, very poor. So these circumstances say you enter Society and build your way up, build a future. But I am larger than life. I myself, the traits that make me whole and happy, do not fit within that mold set for me. I am Gypsy. And to try to be anyone else, follow anyone else’s road, is Unhealthy. Maybe this means I will always be poor. Maybe this means I will always be alone. But maybe…just maybe… there is another spirit out there somewhere traveling, always on the road, inspired and  understanding that it’s not unhealthy to avoid the white-picket-fence 2.4-children. That it’s ok to Wander. Maybe, just maybe, one day we’ll meet on the same road. Someone who thinks that yes, it’s nice to have a home “base” – someplace to come back to, but they don’t necessarily always have to *be* there.

So every day I exist among the masses, work along side them in average jobs where their minds are full of thoughts of children, husbands, wives, boyfriends, kids, house, rent, bills, whatever television program is popular at the time. My mind is full of 1,000 adventures in any given moment. I think in terms of prose, philosophy, music, spirituality, Dreamer. And yes, romance. I do not really meet with them at any place in the day, no *connection*. I listen, I am interested in their lives and their worlds, but they are totally foreign to me. They discuss their pregnancies and look upon me with pity and sternness for my lack of babies at my age. As though it just didn’t work out for me. My replies of “I don’t want to have babies” is met with blank uncomprehending expressions. And then I get the lecture about how wonderful children are, how giving, how fulfilling, as though my lack of wanting that Procreate value is somehow offensive to them. Insulting to them. Sometimes they’ll even try the tactic of informing me that they’ve heard “menopause is much, much worse for women who haven’t had children” LOL! Oh well then hey – that’s a reason to populate the world, eh? I’d better run right out and make some babies! LOL. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t raise children with someone else, if I had a wife that wanted to bear them. They’d just be raised with frequent road trips. *grin*

And here, hardcore, is the difference the open road makes to my restless mind: yesterday before I left I had the song “Hole” (Kelly Clarkson – My December) stuck in my head. Couldn’t get it out. Had to play it several times over. I was just *there*. “There’s a hole, inside of me, it’s so damned cold – slowly killing me”.

On my way back last night, I played the song “Be Still” (KC – My December) like 8 times or more, in a row. Basically from like Luling, to the edge of Austin. This is a song that had never previously *connected* anywhere inside me. I thought it was nice, appreciated the sentiment, but fast forwarded through it. Last night I hit “forward” on “Hole” and instead was completely *there* in
“Be Still”. It finally landed home. On the open road, with that content peace and serenity in my mind. “Be still. Let it go.”. That is the mark of a truly good musician: to *connect* with an audience at various different points in their days, in their lives, instead of just that “one mood” mode which is so popular and encouraged by label execs. Kelly refuses to sit still on the scale. Just as I now refuse to sit still.