Recently I’ve been looking at my face.

The experience is not pleasant. We’re exploring the possibility of making videos of these missives. I’m OK with the idea, but oy, that face. My print persona I enjoy spending time with, but this guy?

Today’s missive is not seeking reassurance; the project may or may not proceed. Some crusty codgers have made themselves companionable onscreen; Andy Rooney, Danny De Vito, Paul Giamatti come to mind, none a matinee idol. What interests me is my responses to my various selves. I’m a different guy in print, on screen, alone, with loved ones, in a crowd, each with divergent interests, appetites, strengths, weaknesses. I react differently to these versions, applauding some, deploring others. None of these is a fraud, I hope, but some are so uncongenial I must hide my eyes. Which, I wonder, is “who I am”? – all, none, some invisible self beneath those on view?

This is not dissociative identity disorder (previously known as multiple personality disorder): little as they may admire one another, my selves cohabit peaceably enough. I am not at risk, best I can tell, of civil strife. While all these selves are mine and I don’t disown them, I favor some while fleeing others. Then I wonder, Who is this “I” I keep mentioning, evaluating, issuing verdicts? Will the real Carll please stand up!

This quandary is, I believe, both common and uniquely human. Other creatures aren’t stumped who they are because they never ask. Puppy Henry in all his moods is always himself, never conflicted, unless I’m missing something. No call for dog shrinks.

Humans bedevil ourselves with complexity. The more we think, the more we think ourselves into knots. And if we don’t think, we’re likely to behave atrociously. Many Americans these days seem to be pursuing their passions without using their heads, and the results repel.

I do not know who I am or how I should spend my time. I stand each dawn at a crossroads, the fingerpost bristling with inviting directions. I must choose; I have no natural obvious way; and any choice I may come to regret. Am I a guy who writes or a guy who performs? Do I seek celebrity or repose my trust in posterity? Do I want to be good or grand? Am I show-biz or know-biz? Is my purpose to fulfill expectations or forge a new path? Do I live for others or myself and if for myself who might that be?

Yes, no, all, none of the above! I could bump along without wrestling such questions – many do – but that’s not how I was made. The one thing I know about myself is I don’t know who I am and want to find out.

This is a new problem, barely half a millennium old. Hamlet was among the first to debate who he was. Kierkegaard was Hamlet in person. “The greatest hazard of all,” wrote the actual (as opposed to fictional) Dane, “losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss - an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. - is sure to be noticed.” He also wrote, “The most common form of despair is not being who you are” – a mysterious assertion I can almost understand.

The face gazing from my laptop is a stranger’s. It behooves me to deepen our acquaintance, for we may partner in this enterprise. The Carll who writes is in his thirties and much better looking. Our encounter is strange.