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Little boxes on the hill side, little boxes made of ticky-tacky.
Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one,
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky, and they all look just the same.(Malvina Reynolds, 1900-1978)
This song, which was originally written as a comment on 1950s American suburbia, immediately came to mind as I was browsing through adverts of village houses for sale in Ukraine. They. All. Look. The. Same! Yes, there are small differences in the details, but there is very little variation in the basic plans. It is as if someone in Moscow had four different houses designed, made a million copies of each design, colored each differently, and then randomly distributed those plans to everyone. Oh yeah, and the interiors were drawn by Piet Mondrian, with no sense of practicality whatsoever. PLUS they all have garden privies… not very nice to visit during the winter months.
Add to that that communist construction wasn’t done with the view on quality craftsmanship, and – well – you can imagine!
In the past two weeks, I have found and bookmarked many “rescue properties” on the Ukrainian version of olx. By that, I mean dirt-cheap properties that have potential and can be fixed up for me to stay in and farm on. Some aren’t half bad, while others can do with some attention in the form of gelignite!
But the thread running through my choices is that none of them are expensive. In fact, some are so cheap that I can probably pay them out of my savings, cash!
Desire, as Neil Gaiman has so beautifully taught us, however, is twinned with Despair. Whenever I have a Big Dream, I always have to be on the lookout for Fear, Doubt, and Worry, as well as the “Not Good Enough” demon.
See, to be able to move to Europe, I would need an independent income, even if it’s a small one. Right now, the only way I can earn one of those is by writing and self-publishing books. But there is always a little voice in the back of my head telling me that I am not good enough, and who the hell do I think I am to even consider myself to be a writer of any skill? And even if I am good enough, would anyone buy my books?
It’s extremely scary, to say the least, that fear of being found wanting. Or of being turned away, because I am “not qualified”. Yes, that boss did a number on my soul. More than I suspected until now.
I am going to apply for a passport on the 28th of December. I want to go and see snow, I want to feel safe, and I need to face some challenges and find out what I am really made of. And yes, I need to get away from the criticism and the constant stress of trying to please everyone but myself.
