agosto

I understand fucking nothing about my blog or generally blogs, but I know for sure that I hate those Big Brothers games like Face Book where the "show up my precious face" is the aim.
So, I prefer to use my beautiful english to start telling to my friends, as less virtual as possible, what is going on in life from the point of view of a 60 old man temporary stucked in a tiny dirty touristic greek island. In english or italian. Some words in some other languages just dancing into my head and my memory.
I like to start from 20th august night: two o'clock and I switched of my ink jet printer and the thermo copy machine whispering a "Thanks" for the silent help they gave to me all the day long. In my work, as in a lot of others activities, stupid machines are indispensable and I like to give to those all the respect and the importance they have. If I had not my thermo copies machine yesterday I couldn't transfer in two minutes the bloody maori drawing on the arm of the guy from Vomero. But I should have spent half an hour following the out lines of the sketch on the back of a copy paper and having a less accurate result. Saving time that in august in Mykonos, in my tattoo studio it means money coming from the tiny star waiting or the writing to be added to a shoulder or a leg.
So the money I will have in my pocket in winter it comes also from the cooperation of that white power book, that laser print under my table, the two machines I've told before, the millenium tattooing gun coming from Nothingam, the bottle of inks silently waiting on the shelf, some of those now ready for the garbage. Too many years with me and at the end of this season time will be to make a big cleaning.
With no regrets: just objects and machines I can talk with, but nothing else.
Like some humans? Yes, and not in the mean time. I can pass over a face, a contact, a meeting, an exchange and put it in a drawer lost somewhere in my memory with the same emotive implication I had for a car or a shaving brush.
The face of the humans I marked yesterday? Difficult after few hours to remember them. Let me try. The two young Neapolitans are the most easy: they spend a couple of days hanging into my studios with their friends having tattoos and talking of their lives, their holiday time. "It's two days we don't go to sleep. We just felt slept after the night in Tropicana and we where with two girls we never sow before." From their faces was easy to understand they where not lying. They are seven guys 19, 20 old and one girl, same age, that told me: "No. I am not cooking for them. I have enough to clean and wash all the day long."
"Sei sola con loro?", le ho chiesto. "Si."
"Bel coraggio. Brava."
E più tardi in proposito uno dei ragazzi ha commentato con un "Si. E' voluta venire con noi. E' matta."
Sarà segretamente innamorata di uno di loro? Lei e un altro soltanto non hanno parlato di tatuaggi. Osservavano, indifferenti commenti e nulla di più. Gli altri si sono portati via sulla pelle un sole maori completo di base di appoggio per il bicipite, la scritta I know I can fly... with you, due coccinelle sul costato, una per uno a suggellare l'amicizia,