Things that kept me going while i worked on BALLARD motor court:

–The first 3 minutes 17 seconds of the title track to David Bowie’s 10th studio album, STATION TO STATION

–Bob Dylan’s “LOVE AND THEFT“

—BIG QUESTIONS, a graphic novel by Anders Nilsen

—DUNCAN THE WONDER DOG, a graphic novel by Adam Hines

–Andrei Tarkovsky’s films, ANDREI RUBLEV and STALKER

–Katsuhiro Otomo’s AKIRA manga

–Our cats, RORY and SAMMY

–My babydoll, NICOLE MONASTIRSKY KILEY

I have no idea.

Is it any good? I think so, but I wrote it and so am probably the last person you should trust on that score.

My aim with BALLARD motor court was not original. I wanted to look at the intersection of art & reality and try to figure out what happens there and why it’s important. But I’ve told that story in a unique way and perhaps my methods will resonate with some of you.

I do have one request, though: IF you do read my book, it would mean a lot to me if you TALKED about it. Even if you don’t like it … in fact, ESPECIALLY if you don’t like it! Word-of-mouth, re-tweets, FB posts, reviews on Amazon, comments on this blog, etc., they all mean a lot to people who have created something.

Pascal has fiery copper-colored hair and you can see a web of tiny white lines at the corner of her eyes as she squints at her reports. From her kitchen table she can see her backyard: a narrow slice of verdant tropicalia in the middle of the city. Morning sun makes everything look dappled and delightful.

RC downs the whiskey. Bows his head while he twirls the empty shot-glass in the fingers of his right hand. There is an occasional clink when the platinum skull ring he wears on his middle finger brushes the twirling glass.

His eyes are closed. Opens them. He looks up. The twirl becomes a toss—up and down in his hand. Pamela walks over. Snatches the glass in mid-air during one of his tosses.

“I’ve seen that look before, RC. You need to take that shit outside if you want to throw things like a little boy.”

Joe’s on one knee on the riverbed; his fingers play in the brown foam that slugs downstream. “People are counting on me,” he says aloud, to himself.  “Ten are the numbers. Not nine. Not Eleven. One above three; three above seven; and seven above twelve. Beth, Gimel, Daleth, Kaph, Pe, Resh, Tau.”

Up the concrete embankment stand the people who are counting on him. They are street people; they mumble and murmur to one another.

Pamela’s at her cards; at the bar. She’s using the Celtic Cross spread. She lays down the Significator and then places the nine cards in their appointed spots. Time for the tenth card. She places the tenth card in its spot; turns it over: The Tower.

“Really?” she mutters to herself. “Again?”

Ballard gives Ben a look. Then takes a final gulp of coffee before getting up to go. “No, Ben; nobody needs that shit.” He tosses a couple of singles onto the table, then mutters: “Douchebag.” And walks back to his car.