One of the shames of my childhood, one of the signs of my unstable sexuality, one of the sources of discontent and provocation, was my weak whistle. It carried, like a whisper, mostly wind, and could flutter a candle on a cake, but never beckon a dog, achieve attention, turn a head in a crowd, signify excitement. I foozed and muffled and whoo’d and wet the air without achieving a single acceptable male-made expression of amazement, nor could I do the forked-finger bit, causing my breath to scream like some banshee as it squeezed between my teeth. Even at my present age I can barely carry a nursery tune through pursed lips. So what am I thinking of now, as I try to whistle up a favoring wind? Who, among the gods, will hear a hooosh?

From the womb of

Memory as Eros from the

wind-egg, emerged the Muses, three

originally, called Castilia, Pimpla, and Aga-

nippe, and likened frequently to the freshets, to

the mountain springs—quick, clear, sudden, sparkling,

cold—which bickered down the slopes of Mount Helicon

and Mount Parnassus. They were in order of their birthdays:

Recollection, Contemplation, Celebration, later corrupted three

times over by unnameable panders and innumerable pimps, cock-

bauds, ass and cunt collectors, who were satisfied simply to

enumerate areas of inspirational activity rather than

illumine its dark conditions, elements, and causes,

and went about it all so recklessly that soon

there was a muse for spilled milk as

well as one for premature

ejaculation.

To perceive . . . to ponder . . . and to praise: rühmen, das ists!