Tonight I watched one of Todd Stephens' early films, "Gypsy 83". I was already a fan of his more famous Edge of Seventeen. What I liked about Gypsy was the predictable "road-movie" story-line, the missing mother, the gothic makeup, the make-belief so simple, yet so true, in those big American trashy side-of-the-road places where it is both beautiful and incongruous to watch a couple of kids dancing to The Cure in velvety outfits.
I was a Gypsy myself, growing up in Rinchoa, near Lisbon, Portugal, which could be another god-forsaken place somewhere in Ohio, just like in the film. I too stood in front of the mirror dabbing colours onto my face, tracing my lips with red and working my eyes into storms of purple and blue. I too danced away in the middle of the night and hoped to be rescued. I too was a runway. Still am in so many ways. Still running away from Rinchoa, its working-class smugness, its middle-class pretentions, its end-of-the-day boredom. But it is all part of me, and I cherish it too, in a twisted kind of way. Without my memories of Rinchoa there is nothing to run away from and that is what keeps me going.
Gypsy awoke the teenage in me. I could feel him stirring. I will go in front of the mirror tonight and put some makeup on and jive. So good to know this is all still here. Ah, I almost forgot how nice it was to hear Stevie Nicks singing again "Talk to Me". I had forgotten all about it, those afternoons listening to the radio at home after school in the 1980's. "Talk to me, When you are down now, Talk to me".
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