Erik Taylor

The lovers whisper to each other, soft gentle words spoken in that voice only reserved for one other person. I sit nearby, an unnoticed voyuer basking in the emotional sunlight as she stares quitely into the glowing fireplace. Arms wrapped gently around one another her eyes well up in tears for the sweet words of poetry spoken from some unknown volume of sonnets. In the far back corner of a bookselling giant where cd’s sell for 18 dollars each and to get your fix of steven king and john clancy will cost you 10, love blooms on overstuffed and overlooked sofas. growing despite the bustle and flow of the blind and uncaring consumer bent solely on getting thier next read, “excuse me, could you point me to the section on love.”

“Sure, just past the cafe, on the right hand side after suspense, you’ll know it when you see it.”

Sitting on a dirty sofa across from a dirty dog and an even dirtier friend. I smell the chicken cooking outside. On sale 67 cents per pound. Only a bit longer til it’s done. My mouth begins to water as I wait for my dinner and the dog stares at me with a look of longing. He knows who is in control of his immediate destiny.

Yeah I guess I do too.

“Family guy is on at 11,” Scott says to me smiling through a thick brown tangle of overgrown beard.
Family Guy the staple background programming for more than one of the postcollegiate halfway-houses I have been frequenting the past month. I know where I stay tonight, more importantly where will I stay tommorrow

“Chickens done.”

“Lucky is the family guy…”

31 feet

3 steps

1 white tin lid on a small white box

3 possibilities for me

Clad in his dark blue postal uniform, Mike the Mailman, delivers these possibilities to the front door. With a wave of his hand he closes the lid, turns around, paces down the 3 steps, and out 31 feet back to the sidewalk. Then it is time for my journey.

37 feet

3 doors

2 steps

1 white tin lid on a small white box

In my black terry cloth robe, oversized sweatpants, and house shoes I have had since I started my life as a photographer. I flip open the lid, grab the contents, and turn around. I walk through 2 doors, up 2 steps, toss the mail that doesn’t contain my possibilities on the counter, walk 37 feet, through the last 1 door and begin to see what Mike the mailman was so kind to deliver to me today like every other day.

Bills, Checks, and Rejection letters

Bills- The facts of life, one of the things that really ties me to the reality of the world and what it costs to live American. Also one reason why I strive for the second possibility.

Check- A sigh of relief and self-doubt as I see the hope and validation that these bring. This brings me to the last possibility also facitilated by checks and one of the reasons that I rack up bills.

Rejection Letters- The real dichotomy of my mail fetching experience. Depressing that I was turned down for another job. All the while amusing because I already love what I do and am proud of what I do. Uplifting in that there is still more for me to learn. Please, to all of you who have seen my portfolio and passed…Keep those letters coming.

In this ritual of a combined 136 feet, 10 steps, 6 doors, and 4 white lids, the facts of life, relief, self-doubt, depression, excitement, and amusement, Mike the mailman and I are connected. Unless it is the pure unbridled joy of magazine day than to hell with it give me my cup of coffee and my surf magazine.

My face turns slightly downward as I frantically scribble on a napkin, gotta get this thought out.
Ventura Highway on my mind,

“What you writing?” yells the aging hippie on my left over the sound of the amplified acoutsic guitar.

Gotta get this one out of my head, not really hearing the question or understanding why the scrawl of a kid like me would matter when the sound of America was on,

“And I came through the desert.”

My thought shifts “Oh nothing,” I reply distractedly and finish my tall killians, “just a thought”

“Good for you,” He sets down a full mug of beer in front of me, “Get it out while you can”

“yeah, Thanks man” as he turns and walks away.

“Felt good to get out of the Rain”

High School hockey on the bar tv in front of me. My mind left for other pastures, a half written note to myself I no longer understand. I take a draught of my beer, walk over and sit next to my friends. I stuff the note in my back pocket.

The music of our fathers ringing in our ears, “Get it out while you can…”

For those of you who do not know me I am Erik Taylor. I am writing this blog so that you can get a better idea of who I am and what I am about. That being said, most of the writing that you get from this site began it’s life in the time honored medium of napkins, coaters, and whatever other objects my mind spews forth upon when I just can’t hold an idea in any longer. With that in mind please forgive any spelling and grammar discrepancy aquired in the digital transfer. I assure you that I am much more eloquent and accurate on a piece of paper stained with drink rings.