Meditation From an Image Dreamed Midflight

In Little Red Riding Hood, it's the wolf that's the star—the transvestite, the perfect impersonator, the grand actor that can betray his body and be a convincing simulacrum of any species. He is Fenrir, son of Loki, who can't be held by any traps. Far from having a boulder sewn into his belly and being borne to the bottom a lake (even the grim brothers knew the wolf is a thing that does not die), he left that cottage victorious, red cloak draped across his shoulders, a new skin on his face. Just as some tribes had tales of those who, by donning animal skins, could take the shape of that animal, the wolf wears his skins well. He's a better tailor than Ed Gein and will fit his form to the shape he has sewn. Right now, he is taking to the street in a little red cloak and the face of a coquette to lure all the hot-blooded little boys to him. The Big Bad Wolf is not a metaphor for a pederast, he is the warning against himself, the beast that will find you, get inside you, and consume you as you feel each bite until his teeth close on your small, hot heart. Then, that beast within you, wearing your face, will set out to eat again because a hunger for things like that can never be sated.