My Name Is Red

I, SATAN

I am fond of the smell of red peppers frying in olive oil, rain falling into a calm sea at dawn, the unexpected appearance of a woman at an open window, silences, thought and patience. I believe in myself, and, most of the time, pay no mind to what's been said about me. Tonight, however, I've come to this coffeehouse to set my miniaturist and calligrapher brethren straight about certain gossip, lies and rumors.

- From My Name Is Red, by Orhan Pamuk



I, THE EGO

Fuck. I knew this was going to happen, the stutter, fingers cold like Popsicles, trembling when held up, and sweat beading up and spreading into a Rorschach test on my shirt. It’s a good thing that I wore a dark shirt! And another good thing -- she was late -- because I had a chance to turn my chair into the early evening breeze and cool my hot forehead. Just before she strolled up to me, I had a moment to draw several deep breaths and meditate on those melancholy memories. They always steady my nerves, plant my feet on the ground and calm my mind. When you remember all that has been, there isn't room for much else.

That I attempted to insert myself into this situation again is no surprise –- how can I repulse the incessant whining of Neediness and the blatant sales pitches of Hope -– but that the attempt has succeeded this far was a total surprise. Careful! I shouldn't flirt with the word “success,” for what could the word mean? At this particular point? Or ever? What could possibly be attained by what I’m doing? You have to think about what is beyond now, today, next week to three years later. Passion persists only in ignorance. Naïve idealism will eventually transform itself into comfortable disdain, hours filled with petty negotiations and reluctant compromises, shopping lists, balancing checkbooks, perfunctory nights together and vacations spent arguing. But what about singleness? Pee-stained underwear and dinners eaten over the sink.

Look, just hang in there, see what happens, you have little to lose. Chill. Just be realistic. It's all about playing the odds.



I AM CALLED ID

It matters to me little that she turned out to be not like what I had imagined. Behind the fronds of a potted palm I saw her walking, swaying, and my eyes measured the outline, and though her face was a blur behind the palm fronds waving in the evening breeze, I knew it was her.

What can I say that would not be said by all men in my shoes? I relished all the curvatures, the full lips, and the twinkling gray eyes. Men spend hours imagining moments like this but to have it actually happen –- to sit across from a beautiful woman and see, hear and smell her –- is magical. I’m reminded of the first time I heard a full orchestra in a real symphony hall. The sound waves filled the space; I felt the vibrations in my chest; music resonated within the hollow cavity that is my body.

Wait. Were the eyes gray or blue? Blue-ish gray, I think. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t bother me that I can’t seem to remember. In fact, all the particulars are already fast fading way, and I’m left with just sensations of memory, and in the end that’s all I care about. I don’t need to remember the object of my memories: the color, size or shape. I just have to remember the feeling of perceiving, the pleasure of the moment. I can feel a deep, slow vibrato of hunger in my spine as I remember feeling the texture of her skin, the timbre of her voice, and smell of her body across from me.



I AM SUPEREGO

I felt myself absent from the situation the whole night, but that is how it works best. I don’t want to be heard aloud. I blend myself into the thoughts, mesh myself into the machinations and subtly guide the actions. What if I was heard aloud, as a single, narrative voice? That would be too egotistical! I was exactly that some time ago –- I was God, a bearded old man with a nasty history. That was a good arrangement until he let himself be confused by philosophers. He needed that because he was a coward and could not deal with me face to face. No matter, I’m still here.

My most basic task is easy: strike down the wild impulses, send them back to the subconscious cellar. Make the idiot keep his pants on and prevent him from making some hopelessly grandiose declarations. But the job could get a little more complicated than that. He knows the obvious offenses, so he sneaks around, taking a circuitous route to that which he knows is trouble. A kid heading for the adult magazine rack never goes straight to it; he winds he way via the milk case and the aspirin rack. The dimwit began the evening well, opening doors, keeping his mouth shut and keeping his hands to himself, and I expected smooth sailing for the night.

Trouble began when, at the supposed end of the night, he managed to invite her up to his room. What was obviously just a friendly visit, an earnest attempt by one person to commune with another –- for what is more tiresome than an endless internal conversation with oneself? -– the imbecile took it as some expression of attraction and reasoned that it was somehow wholesome, right, and even desirable to be true to his base instincts and express them. No, I didn’t have to wrestle him off his guest; he’s too much of a coward to be that impulsive -– but I saw him inching towards her on the sofa and I, jolted from a sleepy inattention, immediately filled his head with doubts. Doubts about himself and his grasp of the situation. This isn't the most forthright way for a superego to work, but I’m not here to adhere to principles, only to affect them. The buffoon's voice cracked, his fingers began to tremble, and I knew we were safe again.

[ca. June 05]