“…A stranger-than-fiction, true-life journey through the twisted world of an authentic art terrorist.”

- Billy Shire, La Luz De Jesus Gallery

Check out Billy’s new Gallery, BSFA, here.

 Tonight she got a big bad buzzing bumble bee up her ass again about some fucking thing or another.
 I could only guess… at her mental state, since she doesn’t have the slightest ability to express her feelings in calm dialogue. At least not when she’s in her shit.
 Which is often.
 Every time I try and talk about feelings or memories or traumas with her she tells me to shut the fuck up, shunning any meaningful discussion like the Plague.
 She only wants to forget forget forget it ALL and have fun. Fun fun fun…
 But it’s long gotten past the point where the drugs she takes to have her fun and relief are any fun or relief anymore at all. She is simply living in a dark, twisted little world of self-induced psychosis and blatently irrational self-justified, self-authorized, self-obsessed self-destruction.
 And still she insists, MUST insist she’s just having her innocent, harmless adolescent little fun.
 Today I watched her take a big hit of crack then choke on it like a cat hacking up a hairball. Finally she vomited a handful of greenish bile into a baseball cap she’d been wearing, casually dumped it out the window, then put the cap back on her head.
 That was it.
 After that, I just hadda split and let her have the rest of her big fucking fun alone for the rest of the day. Even a fucking lovesick hungry buzzard like me has his limits. I split.
When I finally went to look in on her many hours later, her deep-seated self-induced abandonment complex was on full blast and she just started brewing. Brewing and brewing, till, before I knew it, another violent, embarassing public scandal was in full raging insanity.
 Now I’m sitting all alone at my little sanctuary by the rolling waves at the far end of Copacabana under a cloudy full moon sky, waiting for dawn and trying to put it all together.
 It all started cuz she spent the last 12 hours locked in a little room smoking crack alone. Now, I know I left her alone, knowing full well that Narcisa doesn’t like to be alone. But what else could I do?
 Thinking about it all now I’m thinking that, for someone who hates to be alone, it’s really quite ironic that she’s chosen to dedicate her life to the constant pursuit and adulation of the one drug that most completely and effectively cuts one off from the human race like a gangrous limb, sucking her right down into a swirling whirlpool of paranoid, psychotic, self-obsessed dementia and endless isolation.
 I know she felt abandoned today after two days being left alone to smoke in the big abandoned house on the hill. But I couldn’t stay around her to watch her doing what she does.
 Not today.
 She’s been up for a few days again. And now she’s gotten to the point where she hasn’t bathed or changed her clothes in a whole week now. What the fuck?
 I’m the only one left who can tolerate her shit, and even I can only take it in small doses now. Its very sad, but there you have it.
 So when I finally went back after all those hours to look in on her, she’d already gotten herself worked up into a pretty good little snit about being left alone.
 She never said it, since Narcisa rarely expresses herself in a conventional sense. Narcisa acts. Tonight her act consisted of walking off haughtily as an offended queen until she found a crowded plaza to sit in smoking a joint. When I caught up with her, she studiously ignored me. Finally I got back on the bike and started it up.
 ”That’s it, Cigano. Just run away like a little bitch,” she snapped loudly for all the world to hear.
 ”I’m not running away. I just wish you would get on the bike so we could go and talk without an audience…”
 ”What’s wrong, Cigano? You afraid what people gonna think?”
 ”Lissen, baby, I’m not gonna continue this discussion with you here. If you wanna come with me, maybe we could go for a little ride and talk.”
 ”You wanna talk, Cigano, you can talk right here,” she declared loudly, digging in her heels. Heads turned to watch the show. Narcisa loves an audience for her scandalous tantrums. She was just getting started.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

To answer many people’s questions, the following links are where Narcisa can be found:

OUR PUBLISHER, HEARTWORM PRESS HAS COPIES

ORDER AT BARNES AND NOBLE

BACK-ORDER on AMAZON

BACK-ORDER at TARGET

Copies may also be found at the following bookstores (more bookstores will be posted soon):

12 NOON-

I finally managed to roll over and go back to sleep and within 5 minutes I was awakened again by a series of disturbing noises, telling me she’s up. And in perfect synchronicity of course, right on fucking time to disturb my questionable bit of rest is the rustle of potato chip bags and its crunch-crunch-rustle-rustle-bang-crash... all this to the background soundtrack of the chattering moron box on which she’s watching Saturday cartoons.
But one thing I’ve noticed over the years with Narcisa, is that all this indignity hardly ever leads to violent confrontation as it once did in the past.
I think we’re both actually smoothing out a bit with all the time and suffering and separations…
Smoothing out like two raw gemstones bashing against each other in a tumbler – because that’s how the jewelers refine rough stones, by putting them in a tumbler and letting them bash up against each other until all their rough edges are smoothed out and they’re ready to be fine cut into precious gems. ( See Alessandra’s Blog, Thoughts on Things)

The trick, though, is to always put like stones together in the polishing process; diamonds with diamonds, ruby with ruby, etc. Cuz if you put a diamond in conflict with an emerald, the softer, weaker stone will be pounded into dust while the other will be left there all alone.
Just like people.
I have honestly come, over the years, to believe that me and Narcisa are surely enough of a like kind to benefit from all this sort of violent contact together.
Two pirate criminals of uncommonly high intellegence and spiritual evolution, albeit both steeped in years of selfishness, nasty habits and covered in all sorts of creepy unconscious emotional trauma scars.
So over the years we’ve pounded and bashed up against each other in a long war of almost unbearable conflict.
So far nobody has killed anybody or died in battle yet.
A real blessing, from where I’m sitting now, counting my blessings.
Meanwhile we seem to be slowly, quietly adapting to each other’s obnoxious solitary ways and nasty habits, much like two wild tigers locked in a cage together coming to some. Sort of an uneasy truce. My big hope is that this could all really evolve into some marvelous symbiotic kinship, after so many blazing, fur-rending, near-death rumbles and bloody skirmishes…
At least that is my thinking for today, and my daily hope…
That over the ragged course of so much time and adventure and violent conflict and dangerous drama and give and take and common experience spent in each other’s company, we might even come someday to live in something like real harmony.
Like two battle-scarred warriors teaming up for the common good or the common bad, a real cataclysmic battle, but this time the two of us fighting side by side, instead of as adversaries.
Who knows? Stranger things have happened in the course of human affairs.
It has been said that, in spiritual terms, when there is an alliance between two former adversaries, it leads to a stronger than average bond. The best analogy I’ve heard is this:

Back in the day, doctors used to worry about the pregnancies of women who had previously undergone c-sections, fearing that the mended flesh, traumatized and weakened by the operation, might bust open from the pressure of the new pregnancy. Then they discovered that the area where there was scar tissue that had mended after an injury of previous trauma was actually much STRONGER than the normal tissue.

It’s an interesting concept.
And love is powerful.
I really have come to believe in miracles, the suspension of belief and disbelief as well, through many real-life demonstrations over the last decade since I’ve been seriously seeking spiritual guidance and healing for the basic conflicts of my heart. Conflicts that almost took me to the cleaners myself with liquor and drugs and all sorts of self destructive living in general, just like my little friend, Narcisa.
Love is powerful
And so is sex.
A powerful hands-on healing magic, even in the greasy blood-stained hands of crippled monkey-brain pirate terrorists like me and Narcisa..
Something is happening with us and, while I don’t know exactly how to define or ‘handle’ it, I am smart and experienced and maybe just intuitive enough not to take anything for granted now.
And I do believe that if we can somehow just manage to survive this rough, violent, terrifying tumbling process, its entirely likely that it might smooth us both out enough to actually become a pair of strong allies. Hard, precious stones being shaped and cut together for some larger purpose..
If we don’t die in the process, of course..
So far I can actually see sometimes how this bizarre, twisted relationship has served us both well in many ways.
It’s certainly given us both plenty of fuel for contemplation – enough for me to even write and publish a whole fucking book on… Maybe more…
Not to mention the other more personal book I wrote for Narcisa, all in one crazy month-long sitting, while she was holed up in that stupid Jesus camp.
That book was 200 pages long and entirely hand written in Portuguese, our common language of choice, even though we both speak English and Spanish pretty well..
I wrote it mostly sitting on the rock at Arpoador beach, in a spiral notebook.
And at the exact moment I finished the last page of dense marginless writing, my cell phone rang and it was her, calling me for the first time in months with her accumulated concentration camp phone privileges to ask me when I was coming to visit.
Then she asked me where I was sitting right then. When I told her “Arpoador,” she told me she already knew it, that she’d actually visualized me sitting at the exact spot where I was sitting at that moment, just as I’d finished the last sentence of her hand-written book.
And I wasn’t surprised, just another typical telepathic paranormal phenomena moment with me and Narcisa, cuz that’s how strong the invisible bond is…
Such extrasensory synchronicity and empathy surely merits more than just one fucking book, no?
So, like it or not, here we go again…
Thanks to my fire-breathing, crack-smoking, shit talking, everloving eternal Muse, Narcisa.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

“Jonathan Shaw is the great nightmare anti-hero of the new age”.

I think that pretty much sums it up.

-Alessandra

 1. Can you explain to me exactly what is the post-modernist tropical muralism in South America? What inspired you in it?

IM GLAD YOU BROUGHT THAT UP… not.

IT’S REALLY JUST A LOAD OF LANGUAGE, SOMETHING I MADE UP CUZ I WANTED TO USE SOME BIG FANCY WORDS FOR THIS ART MAGAZINE INTERVIEW… IF YOU CAN’T DAZZLE EM WITH BRILLIANCE, BAFFLE ‘EM WITH BULLSHIT, THAT WAS BOB SHAW’S MOTTO… HE WAS MY TATTOO MENTOR… NO RELATION, SAME SURNAME… MY LIFE IS FULL OF COINCIDENCES LIKE THAT, ALWAYS STRANGER THAN FICTION…

ANYWAY, NOT TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT, I THINK IT WAS JUST MY FANCY ARTSY WAY OF MAKING REFERENCE TO THE KIND OF NAIVE HAND PAINTED MURAL ART YOU SEE ON SLEEZY BAR AND WHOREHOUSE WALLS  IN PLACES LIKE BELEM, SURINAM, HONDURAS, MEXICO, SHIT LIKE THAT…

HAHAHAHA 

2. What are dockside dives like?

IF YOU GO TO VILA MIMOSA AND WALK ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE END OF THE 2ND ALLEY ON YOUR LEFT… OR THE BAR ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE ‘SCANDINAVIA’ IN PRACA MAUA…. AHH QUE SAUDADE DO MEU RIO!!

2. Can you tell me a little bit about your family? Mom, Artie, Bob Shaw?

INSANE GENIUS ARTISTS WITH PARANORMAL, DISTURBED INTELLECTS AND LOADS OF TALENT AND CHARISMA  AND… VERY BAD LIFE SKILLS,  WARPED SOCIAL ATTITUDES, PSYCHIC DAMAGE AND ALCOHOLISM… MUCH SUICIDE, VIOLENCE AND TRAGEDY IN MY IMMEDIATE FAMILY OF ORIGIN… IT’S A CONSTANT THEME IN MY BOOKS AND OTHER WRITING, NOT TO MENTION MY PERSONAL LIFE….. FUN FUN FUN…. MY MOTHER ALWAYS CALLED IT ‘THE CURSE’ AND SAID IT WAS HEREDITARY…SHE WAS MOST LIKELY RIGHT, I THINK.

I WAS ON THE STREET AS SOON AS I COULD FIND MY WAY OUT OF THERE. LEFT HOME RUNNING FOR MY LIFE AND NEVER LOOKED BACK TILL I WAS MUCH OLDER AND SOBER AND TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF IT ALL. I STILL AM TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF IT. IT’S A FULL TIME JOB. I THINK THAT’S WHY I’VE BECOME A FULL TIME WRITER. WHEEEE!!!

MY  FATHER WAS A PRETTY GOOD WRITER, NOT NEARLY AS GOOD AS ME, IT WAS ALWAYS HIS BIG AMBITION THOUGH, AND HE COULD NEVER QUITE GET IT… HE SHOULDA STUCK TO MUSIC, THERE HE WAS A GENIUS… HE PUBLISHED A FEW BOOKS BUT NEVER MADE TOO MUCH SUCCESS. HE’LL BE TURNING OVER IN HIS GRAVE WHEN MY BOOK NARCISA HITS. HAHAHAHA — NOTHING MORE MISERABLE THAN A FRUSTRATED, OVER INTELLECTUAL WRITER, EXCEPT MAYBE A DRY DRUNK, AND ARTIE WAS BOTH, POOR BASTARD.

I’M GONNA SEND YOU A COPY OF MY OTHER BOOK, SCABVENDER IF YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT MY FAMILY, I WROTE ALOT ABOUT MY FUCKING NIGHTMARE CHILDHOOD AND MOTHER AND FATHER THERE.

3. What can you tell me about Bukowski and Burroughs, how meaningful are they to your life and writing?

I LEARNED TO WRITE BY READING ALOT- I HAVE NO FORMAL EDUCATION WHAT EVER, LEFT SCHOOL AT THE AGE OF TWELVE AND RAN THE STREETS, SO IN THAT SENSE THEY [OTHER WRITERS IN GENERAL] ARE  MY REAL AND ONLY TEACHERS AND GURUS AND SO VERY VERY MEANINGFUL TO MY LIFE AND WRITING …

BUKOWSKI WAS A BIG EARLY INFLUENCE AND HE’S ONE OF THOSE WRITERS WHO, ONCE HE’S IN, HE’S IN FOR GOOD… HE WAS ALSO AN ACQUAINTANCE WHEN I WAS JUST A YOUNG PUP, FIRST STARTING TO EXPLORE POETRY…  VERY COOL AND HELPFUL EVEN IN A WEIRD KINDA WAY.  

THERE’S A CHAPTER IN THE BOOK IM SENDING YOU CALLED ’A NIGHT WITH BUKOWSKI‘ THAT GIVES YOU AN OVERVIEW OF OUR RELATIONSHIP BACK THEN….

BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I HAVEN’T READ ANY OF HIS SHIT IN OVER 30 YEARS, JUST STARTED AGAIN THIS WEEK SITTING IN THE BATHTUB TO UNWIND AFTER A FULL DAY EDITING MY NEW BOOK NARCISA… 

BUT EVEN THOUGH I DON’T REALLY WRITE LIKE HIM, AND EVEN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, HE’S STILL A BIG AND BENOVOLANT INFLUENCE…

BURROUGHS LESS SO… 

I READ HIS BOOK JUNKIE WHEN I WAS JUST A TEENAGER GETTING STARTED AS A JUNKIE MYSELF- HEROIN, I GUESS THAT WAS ALWAYS ONE OF MY BIG AMBITIONS TOO… ANYWAY MY OTHER BOOK SCABVENDER DEALS WITH ALL THAT….. OH YEH BACK TO BURROUGHS, NOT TOO MUCH TO SAY THERE, I LIKED ‘JUNKIE’ COULDN’T FUCKING READ NAKED LUNCH OR ANYTHING ELSE HE WROTE… SORRY. I MET HIM A COUPLE TIMES WITH JIM JARMUSCH WHO’S A BIG FRIEND OF MINE AND WAS FRIENDS WITH BURROUGHS… 

FUNNY YOU MENTION THEM TOGETHER, AS I WAS JUST SITTING IN THE BATHTUB THE OTHER NIGHT AND READ SOMETHING BUKOWSKI WROTE ABOUT WSB AND IT WASN’T TOO NICE..

4. How resolved is your head in relation to your dad?

IT’S A LIFETIME OF WORK, GETTING ‘RESOLVED’ TO THE FACT THAT HE ABANDONED ME IN THE CRIB, IF THAT’S WHAT YOURE TALKING ABOUT… YOU CAN READ SOME OF MY IDEAS ABOUT IT AND HIM IN SCABVENDER: CONFESSIONS OF A TATTOO ARTIST.  

IF YOU’RE REFERRING TO HIS FAME, I DUNNO, IT REALLY NEVER REALLY EFFECTED ME MUCH, SINCE BEING THE BASTARD SON OF A FAMOUS PERSON AIN’T ALL GLAMOR…. WHEN HE DIED HE LEFT ME… NOTHING. NOT EVEN A PHOTOGRAPH… CONTINUO POBRE, POREM SORRIDENTE!

5. Alcohol recovery?

THAT’S A BOOK OR TWO IN ITS OWN RIGHT… A FEW CHAPTERS OF SCABVENDER ALLUDE TO IT… I WAS AN ALKIE AND A HARD DRUG ADDICT FROM THE  AGE OF 12 UP TIL ABOUT 7 YEARS AGO… I’M AN ADHERENT TO THE 12 STEP PHILOSOPHY AND IT HAS SAVED MY  LIFE AND GIVEN ME BACK MY SOUL….

BTW – I CAN’T PUBLICLY ADMIT TO MEMBERSHIP IN ANY ‘ANONYMOUS’ FELLOWSHIP, BECAUSE IT IS ANONYMOUS,

BUT IT’S OK TO SAY 12 STEP PHILOSOPHY, OK?

IF YOU READ MY BOOK NARCISA, IT PRETTY MUCH SUMS UP THE MIND OF ANY AND ALL WHO SUFFER FROM ADDICTION, ALCOHOL, DRUGS, WHATEVER, SHE IS AN ARCHETYPAL CHARACTER….

I COULD SAY SO MUCH ABOUT RECOVERY, I BETTER JUST SHUT UP AND SAVE IT FOR MY BOOKS….

I LOVE THE TWELVE STEPS!!!! BEAUTIFUL!!!!!!!  THE BEST!!!!!!

6. What are your musical favorites and what authors got the best of you?

MUSIC. LENINE, TOM JOBIM, ETC ETC ETC… ALL THE USUAL SUSPECTS… TOO MUCH AND TOO MANY TO NAME. NICK CAVE I LISTEN ALOT LATELY, BUT IT’S JUST OVERWHELMING TO EVEN BEGIN TO ANSWER A QUESTION LIKE THAT… BETTER JUST  FORGET IT… SAME WITH WRITERS… LATELY I LIKE ALOT OF JERRY STAHL, THE LOVELY LYDIA LUNCH, BUK, RE-READING CELINE, HENRY MILLER, DE RIGEUR, JORGE AMADO, MAYRA GOMES, — E CLARO– GARCIA MARQUEZ,  IT JUST GOES ON AND ON… KEROUAC, THE BEATS, ETC, YOU KNOW…

7. Plan on ever being on the screen again?

I ONLY DO GAY PORNO NOW. TALK TO MY AGENT.

8. What do you miss the most in life?

I TRY NOT TO MISS MUCH… LIVE EVERY DAY LIKE IT’S THE LAST..

9. What happened to your studio? Why did you give up on comercial tattoo?

IT WAS MAKING ME SICK AND CRAZY –  I DID WHAT I HADDA DO… DIDN’T YOU READ THAT THING ALESSANDRA SENT YOU? — THE BIO SHE WROTE ABOUT MY TATTOO CAREER, IT’S LIKE 19 PAGES LONG, TALKS ABOUT ALL THAT SHIT…. SO DO YOUR RESEARCH MY FINGERS ARE GETTING TIRED RSRSRSRS

NEXT…….

10. You were the founder and managing editor of International Tattoo Art Magazine, right? Many people consider you to have been the one who brought tattoo art into the mainstream. How do you feel about where its all gone from there? Are you still involved with the tattoo media, magazines, conventions?

YES I DID FOUND ITA AND NO I’M NOT INVOLVED WITH ANY OF THAT SHIT, THEY ARE ALL A BUNCH OF BOTTOM-FEEDING CORPORATE BLOODSUCKERS…..

I REPEAT — READ THE BIO BY ALESSANDRA FOR MORE IN DEPTH ON ALL THIS SHIT…

11. What about your big 18 page cover story with Iggy Pop in Trip magazine? Some say it was most in-depth piece on him ever. How did that all come about?

NEXT……. IGGY IS A VERY OLD PERSONAL FRIEND WITH A SIMILAR WORLD VIEW AND NASTY OUTLOOK ON LIFE… WE GO BACK…. I JUST HAPPENED TO DO IT LIKE A CASUAL VISIT WITH AN OLD FRIEND, THEN TOOK IT AND PACKAGED IT UP WITH SOME NICE FOTOS AND A GOOD TRANSLATION AND SOLD IT TO THE HIGHEST, MOST PRESTIGIOUS BIDDER, I LOVE TRIP MAGAZINE, BUT I HAVE NO AFFILIATION WITH THEM… IT WAS A ONE OFF. LOTSA FUN, BUT I DONT WANNA MAKE A CAREER OF INTERVIEWING ROCK STARS, NO NO. 

12. What were some of your biggest early influences in the art world?

THE E.C. COMICS — VERY IMPORTANT STUFF, BIG BIG INFLUENCE ON ME FROM AN EARLY AGE… DARK SINISTER READING FOR IMPRESSIONABLE CHILDREN OF THE APOCALYPSE… HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT FOR KIDS TO TURN THEM INTO PSYCHOPATHS LIKE ME!!!  

THE ONLY FIFTIES COMICS WORTH A SHIT — 

NOW THE SIXTIES, THAT’S ANOTER STORY, WHEN I STARTED DROPPING ALOT OF ACID AT AGE OF 12 IT WAS ALL ABOUT ROBERT CRUMB AND THE OTHER ZAP COMIX ARTISTS,  LATER, I BECAME FRIENDS WITH ALL THOSE GUYS AND EVEN HAD SOME ART SHOWS TOGETHER….

IN BRAZIL IT’S ANGELI, REBORDOSA, BOB CUSP ALL THAT, GREAT STUFF, OK I’M DONE NOW….

Narcisa’s been nagging me to get her a full-length mirror for weeks now. She says she needs it to practice her balancing acts and juggling and acrobatic moves with, but I know she just likes to watch herself dance.

I like to watch her dance too, so I got her the mirror, a meter-long full length affair in a cheap wooden frame.

Now she carries it around the house with her everywhere she goes,propping it up in front of herself, looking at herself as she goes through her weird, spun-out days and sleepless nights tweaking and doing whatever the holy fuck it is she does.

She’s spent the last few days up again, all spun out, tongue tied and paranoid, like some bug-eyed zombie ghost. I sat around and sat around waiting for her to reanimate, and… nothing.

Finally I gave up and left her there alone walking around in terrible little circles of doom.                              

After a bowl of hot spicy vegetable soup and fresh bread at the Paderia Santo Cristo, I went home.

I climbed up the little ladder to my loft bed, turned on the classical music channel, and sunk into a fluffy cotton cloud of pillows, drifting away into the happy realms of deep sweet delta unconsciousness. Sleep.

Of course she came back to life around midnight, just when I’d finally fallen out, just in time to wake me out of a sound sleep, dragging my high-flying astral body back down to this accursed bloody, beaten earth.

She’s like some glowing white nocturnal albino moth flying up out of a musty tomb to haunt my nights, wings fluttering eerily at the doors of my own demented psychic perception.

Shit.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.

NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.