Notes from the Underground

Someone said recently, somewhere, that notebooks are not gardens, but graveyards. (If I had the energy, I'd do the search and give proper credit.) The great thing about blogging every day, sometimes with little to say, is that I'm finally given the chance to reach between the solid covers of my moleskine to bring the dead back to life. These are five of my little zombies, chicken scratch fragments on the page that all seemed to fit one theme. Maybe they'll have proper homes of their own someday in stories, but for now I'll let them wander around your head for a while.

The fat orange-colored blossoms on the tree over Neck Road subway station.

A man with a mustache eating an ice cream cone on the R train. In November.

I wonder how they got the piano down here in the first place.

A dozen men are standing in the middle of Times Square subway station, strangers, fixated on the old Ali-Frazier bout radiating from a television screen. Completely oblivious to the rest of New York passing them by.

Dave ♥s Tim, but Tim doesn't ♥ Dave. According to the graffito.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.