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January 23, 2011 / Prof Cupcake.

working for the wolves or PaPaing the pain away

Some times one has the luxury of working, when we do it is singularly wonderful. My time comes with a price tag, and after several days working I am as valuable as a designer hand bag, its alchemy of the 1st degree.

December jobs: PA to the PA of a man named WOLF. (or  PaPaing if you will)

Wandering back into the Wolf den I am overcome with a feeling of deep and unremitting fear. I hope strongly that today I will not be relegated to working in the attic space above the office, which is one of more singularly creepy places I have done my scribing in London. It is not so much the imposing low ceilings or the fact that the floor is littered with hundreds of pictures of Heath Pearson face, in what one could incorrectly assume give the overwhelming evidence was some sort of creepy voodoo cult room after a rather localized yet devastating hurricane, but the single bed with a massive stuffed tiger on it next to a photocopier that looks large enough to eat a fat child, that scares me. (the photocopier not the tiger looks like it has a taste for human flesh and old scans of pencil drawn birds seem to spill from its mouth, carcasses and feathers of midnight snacks.) I cannot imagine this is where Mr. Wolf sleeps, though it is in his office, and I can only assume that it is the wonderful Spanish cleaning lady lives. She treads with such trepidation I worry that when not surrounded by the presence of others, such as myself, Mr. Wolf who seems an all together incredible congenial man, may in fact bar his fangs lower his mouth and hound the heels of Rosalina as she cleans for her keep. Maybe it is from these eccentric and animalistic outbursts that his genius flows, as if when awoken by his baser nature his creativity drips from his fangs and fills pages with prose. Having spent several days simply shredding his rough draft of Mi Vida by Heath Pearson, but realistically by James Wolf, it does seem that he masticates his manuscripts with devilish delight and the near endless red ink that pools in puddles on the page may be the dark lines of a fountain pen or equally plausible is that it’s blood wrent from the legs of a Spanish lady who is sequestered into some attic keep to feed her boss’s literary vampirism.

His office is a homage to the past with boxes of old newspaper clippings stacked in the space between space. You turn away and they begin to creep around corners as if wanting to slither back into your grasp, making soft paper gasps for attention in what a more rational mind may call the slow blow of the breeze through the holes in the walls. The old books and even older photos are the products of a bygone time which makes the many MAC’s which litter the tables like coasters seem so much more anachronistic then they are. This is the office of a man from the turn of the last century who woke up yesterday and has fiendishly tried to update himself.

When Mr. Wolf speaks his voice is slow like satin, and his laugh is more Santa then sadistic but there are feelings here of fear.

It does not help that he is married to a Frued and that the walls are adorned with newspaper clippings from when the nude painting of his wife, painted by his father in law, was auctioned for over a million dollars. Nor does it help that she is prone to swaning into rooms dressed up as an emerald waterfalls only to pour herself down spiral staircases under the ever-watchful eyes of a team of photographers.

Given her genealogy of the absurd and his propensity to transform into an animal they constitute two of the more bizarre people I have worked for. Since the nature of the work is not incredibly taxing, shredding and reorganizing old Rolling Stones articles chronologically is rather relaxing really, I can not help but let my mind wander into wells of wonderment as to what life here must be.

Around the dinner table when they speak is there any phrase that can escape some sort of Freudian embellishment.  Do they ever discuss anything with out the concept of incestuous mother love and vaginal envy flickering to the forefront of their mind? How wild must their sex be? How viciously tame?

I am again working in the attic cult room to a bygone idol on a come back tour. Rifling through pages with his ever collapsing face adorning the cover like some waxen idol in unrelenting heat I see why now he can make the claim “believe it or not I remember it all” for when the world watches you wake you have been writing your memories in the collective consciousness of us all. Turns out than in a desperate need to pull some quotes for an article Mr. Wolf had randomly run through theses boxes of documents himself and it is that reason, not a localized weather storm for why the floor is littered in a rock legends image. Today it is my job to resort them, to pull the chaos on the floor into Viking direct boxes. Finding myself in the realm where the Heath Pearson’s hive mind sits I am overcome with feelings of fascination. At my finger tips are almost all over the recorded interviews, news snippets and photos of Heath Pearson over the last several decades, there are books, and magazines, zines, tapes, cd’s, everything one could ever want.

Sitting amongst the rubble of a life, I feel for the first time that I have transcended the realm of the real and become a Google search. If I typed Heath into the search bar it is the contents of this room that would flood my page. There is so much information here. So much life, all of it so eloquently distilled downstairs into a book one can read about the most enticing of topics.  MI VIDA.

I have no compulsion to read this book and find the character of Heath Pearson rather insipid truth be told, as if fucking woman and taking a near endless supply where the signs of a life worth living. Granted upon instantaneous reflection it does seem that the man Heath may have indulged in a form of hedonistic abandonment the likes of which the world has never seen. But what I find ever so much more fascinating is how Mr. Wolfs has made this man’s life his own in one of the more simple of things, a book.

As my mind wanders the conclusion dawn, many of the papers I hold are as brittle as old bones. There are many pages that look like parchment made from old human flesh, tanned in the sun and sucked dry of life. There are staple marks or vampire bits on the corners of all the pages and in places the ink seems to have grown faint from the ravages of time or from being sucked out by the most insidious of villains, the literary vampire. He has most clearly not only feeded of the flesh of his help but upon the life of Mr. Pearson. His gauntness, and intrepid manner of wandering is the fusion of a juxtaposition born only from the fearlessness of a man who has had the world feeding on him for years, yet always only consuming him within an inch of his life. Mr. Wolf, comes up here late at night to feed on old stories, sucking wisdom from the words in the page only when the fresh source of Mr. Pearson is not close at hand. It is from this, the memory of his blood and the whispering of his heart that Mr. Wolf has crafted this book. The red on the pages of paper I have shred, and on the pages I have yet to destroy are not the blood of Rosalina but the dripping’s of Heath bled out to lend authority to the voice that winesed through the words.

Yet she must be afraid and I know now why, her boss is a vampire, though not a bad guy.

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