Prologue

 

EROS

In Greek Mythology 

Eros: the god of Love and Desire. 

 

In Psychology 

Eros refers to Life Instincts such as Thirst, Hunger, the Will to stay Alive, Sex drive, and pro-creation. 

For an individual and the collective human race, these elements are necessary to prolong and preserve life...

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...So they say.

 

The Errors of Life

Thirst 

 Hunger  

Will

Desire 

Love

 Sex 

Children  

The Errors of Eros

 

Chapter One

The Clinical File 

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Creativity by definition is insoluble. To create is to bring something into existence. How can one diagnose something that hasn’t been conceived? Psychology is a futile enterprise. At best, it's a journal, at its worst, it's an instrument of a eugenic monolith. If every fingerprint, brain, and person is different-what use is there for a hivemind? Philosophy is a side dish, not an entree. It has no nutritional value when somebody else prepares it for you. Sure, you could use a formula from a famous chef, a favorite restaurant, or even an old family recipe, but in order for philosophy to have any sustenance you must cook your own dish. These sciences are tools of your handle on life-like a swiss army knife. Use them when you need to, but make sure to put them away after use. You could hurt yourself if they’re always drawn. 

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The greatest technology ever created is error. It was here long before we were, predating even the Big Bang, and it will be here long after the next one. You’d be a fool to think we’re here on purpose, or that we arrived here on the first try. Whether you believe in space, or the spaceman the sum was produced through failure. The Old Testament would be a memo, hieroglyphics a logo, and all of astronomy would be a singular photo if this was the case. Your life-the present is an attempt to correct yesterday’s errors in the cleanest way possible for tomorrow. It is your duty to the math or the man to make as many mistakes as possible because what fails leads to what will succeed. 

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Life is a double-blind, and maybe even a triple-blind experiment. Whether you’re a participant or researcher, nobody knows who is receiving treatment until the trial is over and it is too late for anything but the future. Most times it’s tough to tell who is who. The word ex-peri-ment is of Latin descent and translates to “out of tested risks” or “the state of having done something, and progressed at it”. If that ain’t life- you ain’t living. You could write that on Life’s headstone: Here lies life, it did something, it took risks, and it got better as time went on. 

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As far as the human condition goes, we are nowhere closer to real answers than the Ancient Greeks were. No study conducted has an answer to where creativity comes from or why we laugh. In the past 400 years, we’ve seen Saturn’s rings through our telescopes, we’ve developed instruments to measure elements out of our atmosphere, and manufactured machines that escaped Earth’s gravity to explore the infinite plain that is space. All of which are in search of two things: our origins and our future. Our progress in space has created a paradox in the present that has never existed before in human history. At the current moment, we know more about something outside our terrestrial realm than we do about something the body has produced for thousands of years. Humor and art have existed since Aristotle believed the sun orbited Earth, and all we have is educated guesses. 

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Approach life with ignorance, because that, like failure, is another omnipotent utility. There is no confidence in the world to equal it. Only when you know something about a profession or endeavor are you timid or careful-or afraid to take risks, and that is counter-productive to progress. That’s reverse engineering. When you know too much, you know what has or hasn’t worked, and end up running in circles. The less you know the more you think is possible. Less is more. Less is always more. 

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It was an adolescent spring day in Manhattan- a first kiss soft to the touch but powerful in the soil. The amber sun was now strong enough to lift the buds, defrosting the cold from the slumber of winter's womb. A sharp blue sky had no competition from clouds for the attention of Earth’s affection. Anyone with real brains was outside, but our story begins on the campus of Kings College, a place where the sunshine didn’t help the endowment. 

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Kings was one of the four original Delta Society schools, along with Veritas in Massachusetts, Pierpont in Connecticut, and Woodrow in New Jersey. Between the four of them, they had produced over a dozen US Presidents, but I’m sure that’s not their only regret. At this point in their history, The Delta Society schools were nothing more than a brand name. Sure, they were still the best universities in America, but the entire university system was garbage. Being the best university in America was a lot like being the best at smelling farts. Not exactly a trophy worthy of the mantle piece.

 

Spring semester had already drawn to a close at Kings and all that was left were Ph.D. thesis defenses. They were the dumbest of all students- wasting an extra five years just to add three letters to the end of their name, or two letters to the front. Imagine spending all that time and hard work to gain one more letter than a bride? Then again, that’s probably just as much work. It can’t be easy domesticating beasts. At least getting married doesn’t leave you with half of a million-dollar debt and rob you of your prime. Going to college, and getting your master's or doctorate is a smart investment…for the banks and federal government. Unlike any other loan or federal grant, you can’t file for bankruptcy on student loans. It’s the same thing as getting a loan from a local mafia chieftain- you have to pay them back no matter what. Sure, they won’t break your thumbs and legs, but by the time you pay it back, you’ll look about the same. The Ponzi scheme which is higher education is the worst thing a young person can do with their time and money. 

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Today was Cordelia Adams’s thesis defense. For the last eight years, she had been studying shrinking heads or psychology for the layperson. Luckily for her, daddy’s bank account was paying the bills. After her two older sisters decided not to go to college, he was happy to pay and she liked school, figuring it a better alternative than getting a job. If she was anxious today, it wasn’t because of a lack of preparation or knowledge. It had more to do with guilt. Technically speaking, the psychological dossier she was presenting was legal due to a loophole. Her status as an author was amateur. Had a licensed psychologist committed the same ethical violations as she did, they would have lost their license. Not only did Cordelia collect data on a subject without their consent, but she also engaged in a romantic relationship with the patient. Two big no-nos in the psychological world. Of course, outside of that world, there was nothing strange about what she did. She dated a man, inquired about his past, his fears and dreams, and tried to help him grow. In a healthy relationship that’s what partners do. You’d be surprised how much easier it is to open up to somebody when you’re both on the couch and your clothes are on the floor. Especially when you’re in the arms of someone who cares about you. 

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The subject of her thesis defense was a young playwright named James Palmieri, although his pen name was James Palmer. For the last two years, they were in a relationship. Well, maybe up until five days ago when Mr. Palmer discovered his secret dossier on Cordelia’s laptop. Now her relationship status was complicated. All of Cordelia’s attempts to rectify the matter had failed due to the fact she couldn’t locate him. He didn’t own a cell phone, their mutual acquaintances hadn’t seen or heard from him, she wasn’t allowed at the theater and every time she went to his apartment he wasn’t home. If anything was obscuring The Student’s focus, it was The Playwright’s vanishment. As she sat in the lecture hall waiting for her name to be called, the image of his heartbroken, betrayed face was tattooed on her brain.

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The lecture hall was designed like a Greek amphitheater. It was large and regal, with large stained glass windows down the sides and two levels of shiny sienna-stained wood seats that were just as narrow and uncomfortable as the dorky asses that sat on them. For all of the negative things you could say about Kings, one thing you couldn’t say is that it didn’t have a beautiful vintage campus. Maybe the clientele and faculty weren’t that easy on the eyes, but the campus made up for it. There were a few students going over notecards in the audience, and some friends of the presenters were there for moral support. In the front row sat three professors-each a member of the judging committee. Two professors were your standard scholarly stiffs- one was a portly male with thick glasses and hair that made dental floss look like a sycamore root, and the other was a female with a permanent scowl, also with glasses. They were strangers to Cordelia but the third was a friend, which was a pleasant surprise. Seated all the way on the right of the committee was Dr. Brassard, the head of the Philosophy department at Kings. He was a friend of Jimmy’s and over the last two years, he and Cordelia had become close. 

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Dr. Brassard was a sharp-dressed, well-groomed, middle-aged man. His teeth were capped and his tan was artificial. He had a healthy head of short brown hair and only wore glasses to protect against the blue lights of his laptop-which he rarely used. Maybe he was only average to slightly above average in the looks department, but on the campus of Kings, he looked like Brad Pitt at a Nascar race. It was reassuring and calming that Dr. Brassard was one of the judges. Cordelia knew that although he was the head of the Philosophy department, that was a title in name only. The apropos designation for him was World’s Wisest Ass. She knew that no matter what she did today, The Professor wouldn’t press her defense too hard, and even if he did, it would most likely be sarcastic or humorous. They had partied together the previous weekend and she knew he was in just as big of a rush as she was to get off campus for summer vacation. 

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“Next up we have, Cordelia Adams from our clinical psychology department,” the portly male stiff said from the front row. 

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Showtime. 

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The Student gathered her things and began walking towards the podium in the well of the lecture hall. Her hair was blonde and her eyes were hazel. She had honeymilk skin, full kissers hugging pearls, and delicate collarbones exposed above a strapless blue floral sundress. When her snow-white sneakers reached the podium, she made sure to glance at Brassard, who returned a grin and a good luck wink back. Cordelia began organizing her things, plugging a laptop into a cord, stacking some papers, and placing some note cards on the podium. When she plugged her laptop in, a slideshow was projected on the whiteboard behind her that read: Symmetry or Synonymity? Understanding Creativity and Mental Illness. 

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She took a deep breath and gathered herself before beginning her presentation. The funny thing about thesis defenses, is they’re not that different from a parole hearing. You have to sit before a committee of judges, and prove to them that the system has rehabilitated you and that you’re worthy of joining the “real world”. Cordelia was hoping today was the day she got her shoelaces back. 

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“Hello everyone, my name is Cordelia Adams. Today I will be defending my thesis on creativity and mental illness. It is my belief that there is no direct link between the two, but that they do intersect at a similar spot before going their own separate way. According to the American Psychological Associations’ terms and definitions, creativity is the ability to produce or develop original work, theories, techniques, or thoughts, and a creative individual is someone who typically displays originality, imagination, and expressiveness. The APA defines mental disorder as any condition characterized by cognitive and emotional disturbances, abnormal behaviors, impaired functioning, or any combination of these symptoms. Through my defense, I will apply these terms to the concepts of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, as well as a 2003 study from Veritas University administered by Professors Larson, Jorgenson, and Diggins. In addition, I will be using applicable quotes and readings from artists themselves, as well a psychological dossier I amassed on a screenwriter who I treated for the last two years or so,” The Student said while sweeping a wandering curtain of her blonde hair behind her ear. She did her best to avoid making eye contact with Dr. Brassard at the moment but did not succeed. The Professor raised a suspicious brow with a coordinated smirk, which added a few more pressure points to The Student’s anxiety. She clicked down on her mousepad and revealed a slide with a picture of Sigmund Freud, who had a face only a mother could love (or a face that could only love a mother), as well as some cliff notes for the audience. 

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“According to Sigmund Freud, the so-called Godfather of psychoanalysis, the creative process was an alternate neurosis, or rather a defense mechanism to protect against neurosis. So you could see what I’m referring to when I talk about an intersection between both creativity and disorder. In his 1899 book, The Interpretation of Dreams, as well as his 1930 book Civilization and Its Discontents, he wrote about how the artist works not that different from a child at play, how when a child is at play they go into a fantasy world but with the control of reality. The brain produces a fantasy that the ego filters into something they can use in the real world. He said, “the artist, like a child molds the world to their desires, where they can fulfill unconscious wishes,” Cordelia continued before flipping to a new note card from behind the podium. Her notecards were air-tight, and she thought that the more she relied on the playbook the easier the game would be. 

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The next slide of her presentation had a picture of Carl Jung (another face for radio) and some bullet points for the audience.  She continued, “Carl Jung had a similar theory with a different outlook on it. They both agreed that to the artist, creative endeavors were a form of therapy-a way to steer away from neurosis and into something productive and beneficial.  But where Freud saw the artist as an individual acting out their own subconscious wish fulfillment, Jung saw the artist as someone who becomes an instrument of the “collective unconscious”. I have to pause to explain this thoroughly because Jung placed a heavy weight on the collective unconscious in all of his work and not just with creativity. Jung believed this was one of the main reasons why different groups of people from different times and parts of the world had similar mythologies. This is why you see the story of Jesus sharing so much common ground with his predecessors like Krishna of Hinduism, Mithra of earlier Indo-Iranian mythology, and Horus of Ancient Egypt. All of these deities were born from virgins and baptized in a river. Both Jesus and Krishna were carpenters, and Jesus, Horus, and Mithra were all crucified and resurrected on the third day. So Jung saw the artist as somebody who draws from these primordial images and merely filters them to fit the modern time in which the artist lived. In his 1933 book, Modern Man in Search of a Soul, and in his 1966 book, The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, he said, “personal causes have as much or as little to do with a work of art as the soil with the plant that springs it” and “true art is suprapersonal, a force which has escaped from the limitations of the personal and soared beyond the personal concerns of its creator.” 

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The Student switched slides again, this time to one that spared the gallery of any pictures of morbid men, but did include notes. “In a 2003 study done at Vertias University by professors Kelley Larson, Peter Jorgenson, and Nathaniel Diggins, they found more precise ways to try and locate creativity in the mind. What they found was that low levels of latent inhibition-or the ability to ignore the irrelevant, and exceptional flexibility in thought predispose people to mental illness under some circumstances, and to creative accomplishments in others. Their study claimed, that getting swamped with new information that you have difficulty handling may predispose you to mental illness, but if you have high intelligence and a good working memory, you are more likely to combine bits of new information in creative ways. Test results showed that students who scored low in latent inhibition, which they saw as a vital personality trait, were more likely to be creative. In addition, the students who scored lowest in latent inhibition also had high IQs. What directly connects to what I posit from their study is that they found that highly creative people showed the same latent inhibition patterns as schizophrenics, and that madness and creativity share similar genes. But that creative people, with high cognitive abilities, have a better chance to not be overloaded by new information, parsing out what is and isn’t useful and using it for something new and artistic.” 

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One of the large, heavy oak doors in the back of the lecture hall slammed shut, and the boom distracted The Student. When she tried to regain her train of thought her eyes did a double-take, before confirming to her mind who the new audience member was. In a feeble attempt at being inconspicuous, a lanky beanstalk shuffled his way down a few stairs and took a seat in the nosebleed section. The mystery of James Palmieri’s whereabouts was solved. 

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“What these studies show, and what I- what I hope to prove is, is-. I’m sorry, can I have a two-minute recess?” Cordelia asked the committee, fumbling her words and continuing to glare at the intruder. Jimmy slouched over in his chair and looked out the window, trying to hide from The Student’s eyes. He was tall and skinny, with olive oil skin, long brown curls, and brown eyes. Although it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him, The Playwright looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The pores on his face were shiny-leaking oil from a bender that started the minute he walked out of Cordelia’s door five days ago. 

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“Is everything alright?” the male judge answered. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

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Before the judge could fully answer Cordelia, she shifted out from behind the podium and began her beeline toward Jimmy.

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“Yes, everything is fine. I just, I just feel-feel a little queasy all of a sudden. Thank you very much. I’ll be right back. This will only take a minute,” continuing her dash up the stairs. She was once a star athlete-a soccer player at her hometown UCLA and it didn’t take her but five seconds to reach the top of the lecture hall stairs.

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Without even looking at him, and racing towards the door that distracted her in the first place, she asked Jimmy, “Can I speak to you outside please?” 

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The Playwright rolled his eyes and dragged behind. With one of his hands still on the doorknob, The Playwright was met with immediate interrogation. 

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“What the hell are you doing here Jimmy? You can’t be here. Please, you have to go!” Cordelia quizzed with equal parts force and desperation, standing her ground and looking directly into his eyes. 

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With a sullen, sarcastic smile, Jimmy responded, “I’m here for moral support. Isn’t it obvious?”

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“Jimmy, I’m serious. You can not be here,” The Student begged with a waning voice, before lightly placing a hand on his wrist, and holding his hand with the other. 

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“Why not? If anybody has a right to be in that room it’s me!” The Playwright jabbed back, breaking out of her grip in the process. “I want to know what you really think of me.” 

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“Jimmy, please. I can’t flush a decade's worth of schooling down the drain. That presentation is my whole life,” Cordelia stressed. 

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“That presentation is your life! Are you kidding me? No, sweetie, that presentation is my life! My. Private. Life. Which I thought was ours, but, but, I guess I was wrong. I’m staying. I only read a snippet the other day. Who knows what else is in there?! You, you probably have some you know, Oedipal crap in there because of my relationship with my parents. News flash toots! Not every young man that loves his mother wants to shag her! The author of your old testament was a perverted little Ma-ma’s boy! What a freak! And this is whose doctrine you chose to follow! And, and so what if I hate my father, that phenomenon’s been going on since Zeus clipped Cronus! What the hell are they teaching you here? Let me guess, insider trading and incest?!” Jimmy said before pacing and mumbling under his breath to himself. 

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It may have only been for a moment, but Cordelia couldn’t help but laugh. Jimmy was the type of goofball who couldn’t help the fact that at his angriest moments, he was also quite comical. The choreography of his lanky body was always at least one step behind the opera of his mind, and he had that hard New York Italian vocabulary that sounded funny to foreign ears. One of his biggest hardships in life was getting people to take him completely seriously. 

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“Nobody besides us knows it’s you. Your clinical file name is under the name John Doe,” Cordelia said, hoping the cloak of anonymity would pacify his cries. 

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“My clinical file! That’s hilarious. You know, you, you had no right to do this. I had no idea you were keeping, uh, keeping crib notes!” The Playwright protested. “All the time I spent lying in bed next to you, I might as well have been on a couch with my back turned to you. I could have still used the lobster bib!” 

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Another scant smile slid onto Cordelia’s face, this one had a shorter life span than the last because, at this moment, the male judge was approaching them pointing to his watch. Luckily for her, the trek up the stairs slowed his stroll down more than hers. He was out of breath, having hauled over two-hundred pounds of chewed bubble gum up twenty or so stairs. 

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“Jimmy please, you have to go. I’m sorry. I really am. We can talk later. I want to talk later. I feel terrible about this,” The Student said as she grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Please,” she begged with an ample whisper. 

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The Playwright whispered back, “You’re sorry. You’ve said that multiple times today, but there’s one thing you haven’t said to me.” 

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Jimmy paused with a vulnerability in his eyes that spoke without words-communicating to her exactly how he still felt about her. The belly of his eyes hungered for a serving of reciprocation. 

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“Jimmy, I do l-”

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The male judge reached the couple still catching his breath and asked Cordelia, “Are you ready? We have to get back on schedule.” 

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“Yes, Professor. Thank you for giving me the time,” Cordelia answered before shooting a look at The Playwright that said I’m sorry, and please get out of here. Not the dish he was hoping for.  

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The look she gave Jimmy sent the judge’s eyes adrift, and he recognized The Playwright’s face.

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“Hey. Wait a second. Are you James Palmer, the playwright?” he asked. 

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“No, but I heard that guy is awesome,” The Playwright joked, hoping to remain anonymous. But the judge didn’t budge. 

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“No, it is you! I remember you from your body cam arrest and mugshot! I watch that video probably five times a year. It’s hilarious-one of my all-time favorites! What the hell were you doing running through The Village completely naked in January? What’s the story with that one?” the judge asked with a chuckle. 

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The callous nature of the judge’s prying questions annoyed The Playwright, but his displeasure was masked by his comic nature. 

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“Let’s just say somebody came home early, and it’s really tough to look for your knickers when you’re being chased by a fireplace poker!” 

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The judge laughed at the response, and added, “I’m a big fan of your work.” 

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“Hey, thanks! I could tell. It’s always nice to meet a fan! You should check out my plays too. They’re very similar! I’m not sure when my next misdemeanor is coming, but I’ve got a new show opening up in two weeks!” The Playwright said as he extended his hand out for a greeting. 

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“Right, right. I think I read something about it online. I’ll try and check it out. How do you guys know each other?” the judge asked. 

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At the same exact time, Cordelia and Jimmy answered “We’re dating” and “We dated.” They shared a look, this time Jimmy winked and blew a mocking kiss at Cordelia. The Student didn’t find any humor in The Playwright’s gesture. Was he kissing her goodbye? It only added to her number of distractions and anxiety. Cordelia was unsure if he was joking, serious, or maybe both. 

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“We really should get back in there. We’re wasting a lot of time,” said The Playwright.

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“Yes we should,” the judge said. “Are you ready Cordelia?”

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Cordelia sighed and quickly tried to regain her focus. She was going to have to defend her thesis and reveal the contents of the dossier to Jimmy. There was nothing she could do. Although she knew this would make things more difficult for her, she acknowledged that Jimmy did have some right to be there.

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“Yes, I’m ready,” The Student replied. 

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The three of them made their way back into the lecture hall. Cordelia and the judge made their way to their previous places, but Jimmy took a seat closer to the action. Along the way, he noticed his buddy Dr. Brassard, who didn’t notice his entrance the first time and was shocked to see him on a college campus. The Playwright was asked several times to speak at Kings about his plays but always denied. In one instance he told Brassard, “those places know less about forward-thinking than they do about fornicating, and that’s saying a lot.” This was one of The Professor’s favorite quotes of Jimmy’s. 

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The Playwright walked behind the three professors and Brassard questioned him, “What the hell are you doing here?” 

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Jimmy ruffled The Professor’s hair and kept moving, replying, “A philosopher would say I’m lost.” 

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If Brassard was suspicious when Cordelia mentioned that the clinical data was from her experience treating a screenwriter, he now had no doubts about who the patient was.

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Cordelia thought it was best to jump right back into the presentation. The quicker things got back on track, the sooner they would be over. 

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“Sorry about that everyone. Where was I? Where was I? Ok, so I think I’ve made my thesis clear, that creativity and mental illness might share some of the same traits, but they’re in fact different. I can start to prove this point by jumping into my clinical studies.” 

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The Student looked the committee in the eye to reassure to herself and them that her introduction was sufficient. Unlucky for her, The Playwright had taken a seat a few rows behind the professors, which left him permanently in her peripheral view. As her vision drifted and refocused on Jimmy, he gave her a supercilious smile before adding a thumbs up. 

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Cordelia decided this would be the last time she tried to directly impress the jury. 

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“My clinical patient is a playwri-, I mean- a writer, sorry, a screenwriter from New York. Name, John Doe. The patient was referred to my practice by a friend,” said the Student. 

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From out of the audience, a dim murmur was heard from The Playwright.

 

“Bullshit.”