.PICA is my solo project that finds it's form through music and art and has covered much ground with many friends. it was born through an affection of black birds and the odd way in which they infected the behavior of young convent constricted nuns in the 17th century who began to eat clay, dirt, ashes and chalk in the hope that by the imitation of such dark and noble birds, they too could one day find a way out of their skin covered prisons and leave the earth behind to fly..  

and this might just be a very fine place to be. safe here from hectors and late blooming child molesters and it does not bother me that i am aging rapidly because lightening quick, i can lick black sneaky spiders who live amongst the wires and in the end i might realize i'm stuck so sit right down awhile and tell me all you know about luck. 

this, my offspring. a boy who travels light but carries a large stick labeled wit and is not afraid to hit you with it. he jumps off of high bridges, cycles down tall mountains and impresses girls with his multiple personalities. he's faster than light, smart as a whip and drives his motorcycle through lakes of water and never uses his brakes.  

EXP, music in extremities. here we find our dear Ace Farren Ford up to more of his nefarious deeds. 

EXP- that band, that project that defies reason or explanation is made of Paris, Christian Omar Madrigal Izzo, Ignacious, Doriandra, Ace Farren Ford, Justin Bennet, Ryan Gaumer amd our dearly departed, Rozz Williams. EXP is fond of flying pigs, broken things and piles of meat and remains strict about never playing the same song twice. to buy their clever shirts, visit www.expland.org 

this is christian omar madrigal izzo, a calm and handsome man who plays drums like a devil. he gets cranky on airplanes, stays highly organized in his lucha libre museum and has not seen any ghosts yet.  

My Uncle Paul rose and found one day that the God he'd been confiding in and the wife and kids had forsaken him so he moved in with Grandma and she sought professional help. Twice a week henceforth after checking for clean socks and underpants, she popped him into her automobile and took him to the soporific office of Dr. Friendly. Paul trudged slowly towards progress. At week five, the shrink upped the dose on the sanity drug, complimented Grandmas hair blueing and showed them to the door. Back at home and being somewhere near the vicinity of noon, grandma cheerily inquired of her son what kind of sandwich he would like. Paul, reclining on the back porch, sweetly called back to her,"jelly sounds good", then calmly put the gun in his mouth. She heard one sound. It swept through all the little boxes of love notes, scattered precious locks of hair, childrens dreams laced with gossamer wings, borrowed dreams of unbuilt things, scorching the work bench- twisting all the wires, billions of tires lazily smoking as autumn winds swept away all of God's ashes. The jelly knive clattered from Gramdmas hand and the other one began clawing out there in front of her. A voice from nowhere whispered-damn the dirty trick- and just that fast- that shotgun had opened Paul's head and out went his life and by god, it was running fast, laughing...(look at me, I was 33) Human debris settles quite comfotably on a common back porch amongst faded summer sandals and trivial newspaper headlines retorting on how to lose the love handles...now my Uncle Paul lives in an urn, tucked away like moss near his mothers pillow. She's keeping track of the count, two sons down by their own hands, two to go. Occasionally between fitful short naps, she bolts from her bed to run for the porch...starts shrieking at the old jacaranda tree, "all boys need clean and decent underpants" 

i know of a place in mexico where the buildings are just palaces for the ravens and the ocean air cools them and the fishermen feed them scraps of fish from the little boats that spend all day going to and fro. 

today my hair turned black...i'm ok with this..it's only momentary. 

for over a decade, i lived in the mountains near JPL. once summer, the squirrels all vanished and potato bugs began spitting out 10 inch long parasites from their asses when threatened. minus the parasite and the body, this apricot is masquerading as a sexually advancing potato bug from yesteryear. 

this boy, he's moving quickly cuz he knows what he's doing.. 

a story of an old woman who carved the head of a boy and painted it and he lived on the back porch of her house for a very long time and stared without blinking into the sun and the changing of the seasons and watched the children grow old and move away until he was forgotten. 

dealing with shadows........