newsornotnews (noticiaononoticia)

Biden does not need to step down. He’s done nothing disqualifying. The debate, though, did reveal new information about his condition which he really had an obligation to disclose earlier than now. Since the delegates to the convention were selected with incomplete knowledge on the part of the voters, Biden should release his delegates. Perhaps most will stay with him. Perhaps not. It is only fair to let other potential candidates make their case for the nomination and make the case against Trump. An open convention is potentially an ugly affair but given the apparent level of support for Biden, I think any nominee would emerge with at least as much enthusiasm.

The legal tender of European nations, even before the formation of the European Union, always seemed to me to be superior to that of the United States in that differing denominations would vary in size and color, thereby becoming that much easier to identify quickly and, sensibly, the greater the value of the bill, the larger the bill would be in comparison to lesser valued currency residing next to it in your wallet whereas the dollar certificates issued by the mint of the US (although the word “mint,” to me, implies coinage, which we will get to later. Paper [and here I’m using the word “paper” as a term of art because, whatever material being used for currency currently, it is not truly paper] is printed on.) are all the same green, all the same size, which does bring some superficial order to a wallet with the necessary dimensions to accommodate them but requires a more exacting examination of the wallet’s contents before you deliver the tender in a retail transaction.

The EU has sensibly continued this tradition in it’s issuance of Euros so that, once you have learned which color corresponds to which denomination, you can effortlessly select the proper bill and, even if you haven’t committed the designated color for the bill needed to complete the transaction to memory, you can’t go very far wrong by relying on the graduated dimensions.

Another innovation of the EU is minting (and in this instance it fits perfectly) coins for a single Euro or for two Euros, a practice the US would do well to emulate; but in this, I can only assume, the pitfalls of coalition governance has manifested in that the coin for one Euro has a copper-looking rim with a nickel-looking center which, unfortunately, is exactly the same design of the two Euro coin! There is a difference in size so that when you reach blindly into your pocket, you can tactily differentiate between the two, assuming your pocket contains coins of both denominations (yes, they do differ in diameter but not by much – which denomination you will find in your palm after removing a coin from your single-coin-denomination-holding pocket is a crap shoot). In this, they’d do well to look to their fellow NATO member across the Atlantic where pennies are copper-looking, nickels are nickle-looking, dimes are silver-looking (although dimes are much smaller than the less worthy nickel and penny, a breach in logic that I assume has a humorous historical antecedent that I’m not aware of), and the 25 cent piece has two silver looking layers around a copper-looking layer, much like an oreo cookie which, and I’m guessing here, you can purchase in exchange for the quarter.

The entrance to the driveway of our house (which is a big Bond-villain motorized sliding wooden gate) is at the end of a twisty dirt road. The other end of the road opens onto CV735, which for us is the mother-road: go left, you’re heading to Javea (aka Xabia); go right, you’re heading to Denia; cross the road and you’re only a short hop to Jesus Pobre, the nearest and smallest outpost of civilization.

We’re about equidistant from Javea and Denia as the crow flies but the 10-minute trip into Javea is much simpler so we go there much more often. There are three different points we head to.

First is the big underground parking lot at the edge of the old city, convenient to the Municipal Market, the Saturday outdoor market and the better, often fancy-shmancy, restaurants (When we told the pharmacist we ate at one, he shook his head like we were pathetic). We also were directed yesterday to a very appealing looking butcher shop only a block or two away.

Second is to the parking lot adjacent to the gravel beach and the docks. This is also where the fish market is. It’s lined with restaurants which appear to be of variable quality. We found one that’s very good, Tasca Port, and we usually go there when we’re in that area (Their frittura, the fried fish plate, always has red mullet [salmonete en Español] and I love that).

Third is Platja de la Arenal which is a sandy beach and where parking is a little trickier. There’s a long promenade that runs along the beach, bordered by the kind of restaurants, ice cream shops, beachwear and beach toys and casual clothes stores like you might find in any beach town the world over. Again, we have a fave, Posidona, that’s our go to eatery there.

Most restaurants throughout the area have outdoor space, whether a terrace or an inner courtyard, a glassless open front or a few tables in the street. This has allowed us to bring along Melech the dog (usually referred to as Mel) whenever we go out to eat. I was against it initially. We have a big house, Mel’s perfectly comfortable in it and there’s no reason we need to deal with him wherever we go. Jolean prevailed in that controversy.

One problem, though, is that dogs are not permitted on the beach. Now, I like the water, I like the waves but I’m not crazy about sand or gravel. For me, if there was asphalt up to the water’s edge, that would be an improvement. Jolean, however, who spent her summers on Nantucket growing up, loves the beach. She loves salt water. It’s what she loves best.

So she goes on the beach and I stay on the promenade walking Mel. It’s not an arrangement that pleases me.

Another factor in plan-making we have not yet mastered is siesta. Most retail locations close for siesta but exactly when and for how long is particular to each establishment. Although the Municipal Market is open until 8:00PM, the butchers, fruiterers and fishmongers there shut down at 1:00PM and they’re done for the day (the tapas bars and beer and cocktail bars are open all day but we’re not permitted to bring Mel inside).

The Butcher in town closes at 1:30 also and then reopens from 5:00 to 8:00. The dog-friendly pharmacy across the plaza from the market closes at 1:00 and reopens at 4:00. The fish market opens for one hour, more or less (depending on how quickly the day’s catch is sold), at 11:00 and 4:00. The Saturday outdoors market in Javea (and the Sunday market in Jesus Pobre) is open all day but only a couple of stalls have fruit. Most sell cheap clothing and tchotchkes (Jesus Pobre’s market has lots of baked goods, cheese, charcuterie and olives, a little fruit but no butcher or fishmonger).

The restaurants open at 1:00 and accept diners until 3:00, close at 5:00 and reopen at 8:00 and take reservations, usually, until 10:30. The bodegas, which are taverns that serve tapas and full meals, generally are open from noon until midnight (although not everyday) and don’t take reservations.

Things move slow. They pause. A meal lasts hours and is followed by a nap. I’m still living by the New York minute. But I’m adjusting.

Facebook informed me, a couple of days ago, that it was Larry Bloom’s 85th birthday. I did some obituary hunting and found none so I guess it’s correct, that Dr. Bloom is 85. I’m glad he’s still here.

Bloom was my shrink for about 35 years. Sometime once a week or twice a week or three times a week. Sometime, additionally, in a group he assembled and monitored.

At least initially, he was old school Freudian. Whatever my problems of the moment, transference and counter-transference was the currency we traded in. All the classic complexes, most frequently oedipal, made appearances in our sessions.

He always had a literary bent and would celebrate Bloomsday with an annual lecture on Ulysses to the psychiatry residents at Mount Sinai hospital. At a certain point, maybe, 25 years in, Martin Buber showed up as a canonical influence which, unfortunately, was the nose of the camel. Spirituality, light and dark, metaphysical influencers became a large part of my therapy. My atheism was interpreted as resistance.

Was I helped by all that talking we (mostly I) did? I think so. I learned a lot which is a poor substitute for changed a lot but I’d say I changed. I was also 35 years older and would have certainly changed some with or without therapy. Nothing that happened in session, though, provided the elation that came with retirement. It shocked me, the way the anxiety and stress of my work life permeated all the rest of my life and how happy I was to jettison it.

While I was seeing Bloom, when I was, let’s say, analytical, I could see life’s complexities and, I believed, people’s subterranean motives and I miss the absence of that very much. I feel shallower, dumber. It’s as though I’m an apartment house with people scurrying about upstairs but all the mechanicals, the boiler, the elevator controller, the AC compressors are all down in the basement and I can’t get in there anymore. I don’t even remember where the door was. All I can do is scurry.

It’s possible that I stopped seeing Dr. Bloom because, after 35 years, I had simply had enough. That was not the reason I gave.

My second wife, Syd, was a drug addict and a borderline personality, something it took me a couple of years to realize, but, after less than a year’s marriage, we determined we needed couples therapy. I did a little research, asking around, and came up with a few names. I told Syd we’d go to whichever she chose.

What she wanted was for Bloom to be our couples therapist. I resisted but I talked to Bloom and he said he had been in that position before. “You must understand though,” he said, “that when I’m treating a couple, the marriage is my patient. I want the marriage to be healthy.”

So we began our sessions. It quickly became clear that the reason she wanted to see Bloom was that he would know, from our very first meeting, how fucked up I was and that our problems all stemmed from my issues. In a year of Blooming she never once acknowledged that she was at least a little at fault. In fact, as time went on, she saw me more and more as a villain acting out of evil, sadistic intent.

Early during that time though, when we were only 12 months married, we had a fight that, I thought, was beyond the limit that I could endure and I resolved to end the marriage. I informed Bloom of this during one of our private sessions. “That solves a problem, I suppose, but I believe that the best chance you each have for growth and happiness,” he said, “is with each other.”

I stayed another two years during which things got worse. Her paranoia got worse. Her agoraphobia got worse. Bloom was willing to do house calls but she came to see him as an agent of those who would harm her, as was I. Things once got physical and, two days later, she swore out a complaint against me at the local precinct and I was arrested. Then she had me arrested again for no reason.

There were other times the police came to the house, called by our neighbors mostly (one time police and firemen when she set our mattress on fire). They came to know her and to know how damaged she was. We had her admitted to a few different resident programs. Finally we divorced.

I carry a lot of anger about that time still, notwithstanding the fact that I learned a year or so ago that she was dead. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, I don’t know any of the circumstances. My anger doesn’t prevent me from seeing what a sad, helpless, hopeless woman she was. I hope there was something approaching a happy ending for her before she went.

If my anger at Syd was modulated by pity, my anger at Bloom was unchained. Whether or not the marriage was his patient, I was his patient too. I felt like Brando talking to Steiger in the backseat of the car: he should have looked out for me. He had a much clearer idea of Syd’s psychology than I did. Were it not for his encouragement (mind you, he almost never made behavioral suggestions to me – it was not that kind of work) I would have avoided two years of needless expense, pain and drama.

So our time together came to an end, another item, perhaps, broken by Syd. Or perhaps not. It’s true that our sessions at the end revolved around my anger at his failure to deal with the corporal world and the practicalities of living (such as a drug addict wife). His spiritualism shielded him from recognizing what a grave mistake he had made and the price I had to pay for it.

And today? Today I love him. I appreciate all the concern, all the emotion, all the counter-transference, he gave me. He made a mistake, definitely. Everybody does.

Happy birthday Dr. Bloom.

I’m standing in the pool. The water’s about nipple high. There’s a little Bluetooth speaker amplifying whatever the Apple Music shuffle selects from a very long playlist I’ve assembled, The water felt cold at first. Now not.

The pool use within the property Jolean and I bought with the intention of it being our primary residence. Our much loved Spring Street apartment is listed for sale.

The property abuts Montgo National Park. The closest village, Jesus Pobre, has a population of about 3,000. That includes the British pensioners. We are part of the city of Denia and the state of Alicante, Spain.

It’s been five years since my last post.

Jesus pobre!

Something odd that I don’t think about near enough – I stopped posting when my mother died, not that she ever read the blog. Yet, I think she was the audience I wanted to reach. I wanted her to hear me and I wanted her to say, “Good job.” I can’t recall ever hearing that although I’m sure I did. My story, as I tell it to myself, is that she didn’t.

Her mishegoss and my mishegoss, to use a Spanish term.

There are a lot of topics we could talk about from the last five years: a couple more surgeries; why we decided to become expatriates; what’s living in Spain like; my Daughter Samara’s two novels; the gansa mishpucha of Jolean, steps and in-law; how and what music I’m listening to; old movies or US politics or even my mother.

For today, I only wanted to let whoever is interested know my intention to be back. And I do take requests.