The Parcel

I have finally come to visit the parcel purchased by my missing international con artist husband shortly upon my escape from Venezuela.

It would seem that he was only hours (and one flight) behind me because when I finally arrived in Philadelphia, in 2011, and then at the home of my sister in New Jersey, I chanced to go online to discover that he was also in the United States. It would seem that the American Express card that I had given him, but cancelled when I had rigged up a makeshift antenna for our base station mountain “cell phone”, had been used to rent a car in Miami. Naturally I remonstrated with American Express for allowing this charge to occur (the account was under my name as I had been the only one of the two of us with a) an income; and b) an excellent credit rating.)

I wonder what happened to him next.

The next indication that he was in the U.S. was a notice of wire transfer from a bank in Germany to our joint checking account in the U.S. The notice arrived by U.S. Mail. By the time I received this notice, of course, the funds in their entirety were withdrawn.

Weeks later, I received a deed in the mail, given that my address was my husband’s only known U.S. address, to a parcel in South Carolina. I was able to determine using Google Maps that this was a plot of undeveloped farmland located in the vicinity of a prestigious preparatory academy.

The way I put it all together was this: He must have figured out that it would complicate my efforts at divorce (and award) if he were to establish residency in yet a fifth venue of our complicated relationship (the others being New Jersey, California, Estado Barinas of Venezuela, and Freiburg im Breisgau of Germany), and was probably hoping to develop the parcel sufficiently to attract the attention of some wealthy widow or divorcee whose dependent(s) were attending said prestigious academy. Doubtlessly, he would put on the same “abused husband” act he had affected for my own benefit. Now, of course, instead of being physically and financially abused, he would have been “abandoned” by his “slut” wife (and still in desperate need of the funds of some other poor sucker being that his ego could not have been sufficiently well-padded by the appropriation of my own wealth).

My husband never did do another thing to establish residency in South Carolina possibly (but who knows?) because my attorney communicated with the attorney who represented my husband in the sale of the property and issued some threats.

Although part of the program my husband had for me was constant accusations of my infidelity, in fact I was completely faithful although trapped in a sexless marriage. (Assuming one doesn’t count masturbation and fantasy in complete privacy as “infidelity”). I believe that he had selected me largely on the basis of my bountiful sex drive as a point of vulnerability to use to destroy my sense of personhood. Naturally, this is a tactic more commonly used by wives, or at least as far as we know. I contend that the extent of this practice by husbands upon wives is unknown because women, by and large, are too embarrassed to admit that they are being sexually deprived by their own husbands as that defies the popular narrative. Similarly, many wives are too embarrassed to admit that they are wholly financially supporting their husbands, like I was.

My own mother has never outright admitted that my father does the same thing to her, that is, deprives her of sex, because he is not attracted to her figure. However, I’ve been able to put the blurted partial admissions together as both parties desire for me, their daughter and “the nutritionist,” to devise a program that will somehow make my mother’s figure flaws disappear and my father to desire her again. My response has always been to explain that the two Cesarean sections my mother underwent resulted in permanent damage to her abdominal muscles such that the only “cure” would either be corseting or surgery. My mother refused to do either out of some sense of the oppressiveness of corsetry and the sinfulness of cosmetic surgery. Apparently her feelings with regard to this oppressiveness outweigh her desire for the resumption of sexual contact on one hand. However, in fairness, I believe that my father, like my husband, enjoys the sense of power over his wife’s insecurity more than sex itself given that it would appear that mentally at least, my father is a pedophile, and therefore, no remedy exists to create a child out of an adult woman.

Similarly I suspect that my husband was at heart a homosexual, albeit wholly repressed. While married to him, I had no figure flaws. I was a weightlifter, farmer, and goatherd to include the wrestling of billy goats. At some point however, I became flawed, that is, my breasts, in rebellion for their neglect, practically disappeared. (Axel fixed that problem with hands-on remediation whereas my new flaws can be attributed to neglect of myself while caring for my dying partner.)

Meanwhile, I visited the aforementioned parcel in South Carolina and photographed it. Here is what it looks like:

DSCN0349 DSCN0350 DSCN0351 DSCN0352 DSCN0353 DSCN0354 DSCN0355 DSCN0356 DSCN0357

In addition to its beauty and the beauty of the immediate surroundings I note that during my 24 hour visit, I was approached in a friendly manner by two handsome Southern Gentlemen. I wonder what my life would have been like had my father’s parents not been transplanted Southerners (North Carolina, in fact). As Neo-Yankees, they were, in my view, insufferable.

Whereas lately, I’ve been feeling like a Neo-Confederate, given the goings on in the media with regard to The Confederate Flag, which has prompted my own research in terms of what I know and don’t know about The Civil War. Part of my own political identity is that I am an anti-universalist or a proponent of universal secession. We shall see where that goes.

Tomorrow, I visit the Venezuelan Consulate in Washington D.C. to determine whether there are resources by which to obtain my husband’s death certificate.

Next on the agenda is to file a motion in New Jersey to have the parcel liquidated for my benefit. Wish me luck!

3 thoughts on “The Parcel

  1. Pingback: The Parcel |

  2. Pingback: So-Called Justice | caprizchka

  3. Pingback: Two Envelopes | caprizchka

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