Walking

A year ago, I crossed over into 2005 with a middle finger raised at mainstream Malaysian architecture. Enough of selling out, enough of listening to developer fools, enough of architects who choose money over design for the people. I couldn’t handle the idea of being a mass murderer to the soul. Enough.

The evening before at 7.30pm, I quietly shut the door of the firm I used to work, stepped into the lift lobby and breathed in fresh air. Freedom in any kind of air smells fresh. In my hands, packed neatly in plastic bags, were the tools of my trade – pencils, scale rule, triangles, trace, and a candle that’d been snuffed out. I had given three months' notice, served it, and had no mojo left for the field. I had no job, didn’t plan on getting one, and firmly believed I was done with design in this country. Two years and I was done. After close to two decades abroad studying and working in uplifting environments, it took me two years here to throw in the towel. Disenchanted. Disfigured. Done.

Last night, I crossed over into 2006, this time with a candle in one hand – lit – and a pencil in the other, sharpened. I have returned to my immortal beloved with deeper convictions and a simpler compass: north points to honesty. I am square ready to face this year thanks to resolutions last year. They weren’t made on Jan 1 – I don’t believe in that – rather over the course of time.

The Spanish poet Antonio Machado wrote: “Traveler, there are no paths. Paths are made by walking.” Yes sir.

Last year, I walked. I walked in storms, walked over crackling embers, and shards of glass. I walked through alleys filled with red-eyed crows a-cawing, through taverns lined with whores taunting then jeering.

I walked along crevises with deep drops but strangely felt safe for there were butterflies beside me, a deer in the woods nearby, a toad who’d make me laugh, and a fairy who’d watch that I never get too thirsty. And when all seemed futile and I’d curl into a ball, the sun would break and the moon would shine. It had been a good walk.

Last year I stepped off the mainstream, eased into the eddying pools and decided the side stream makes for a better journey. On the edges of streams I see riverbanks being shaped, clams and crabs churning the mud, aerating it, mudskippers breathing through both their noses and skin, larvae kicking, flowers decaying, seeds bursting. The side stream is interactive, throbbing, a dynamo. The side stream doesn’t believe in traffic jams, doesn’t accept “aiyah…”, hates cronyism, arrogance and bigotry, and is still ever-ready to stick a middle-finger to soul-killers. The side stream is creative.

2005, in all reverence and humility, thank you. With a candle, lit, in one hand and a pencil, sharpened, in the other, I’ve stepped through the next portal and I’m ready. Let’s walk.