A Better Person

Swing Dance Meditations: Part 3

My Lent this year took an ironic turn. At the same time while I was screaming into the void saying "I am not in the wrong, my ex is; I want to become everything my ex didn't want me to become" I was also getting my shit called out in the dance floor, and somehow liking it very much.

For Lent, I wished for the harsh inner voice within me to be excised forever from me, but my teachers and my friends on the dance floor instead told me instead that the Harsh Inner Voice is good, because it drove them to improve their dance. I recalled that the Harsh Inner Voice has been, in my own past, a helpful voice. What has gone wrong since that time?

The harsh inner voice I wanted to excise said "you are not good enough", but the harsh inner voice that helped my friends along said "you can work on it here, here, here, and here". It helped that people said the latter out loud to me, in person.

In boxing class, we worked the bags repetitively, and every session I focused on something different. One day it would be shielding my face, the other day it would be posture, and the day after it would be which knuckles to land on... All these work by the fact that I am breaking one big task into small manageable tasks. Dance practice, from some angles indistinguishable from boxing practice, is very much the same deal: one day to focus on etiquette, one day to focus on switching between modes, and other days for other techniques, and so on.

Here I list some things that I have focused on in the past year. Since dance skills are often also life skills, these could help me become a better person overall:

Confidence. Ask her for a dance. Ask him for a dance. Deal with rejection and heartbreak. Try new moves from the last class. Try to make up some bullshit moves. Follow through with the bullshit moves. 

Situational awareness. The dance floor is crowded; move to a safer spot. Don't let you partner bump into other people. Listen for movements in the music. Be ready for surprises.

Empathy. Watch out for signs of distress or other changes in mood in your partner. Look out for people who look like they might like a dance. Do simpler moves with beginners. Be kind. Build each other up. Appreciate that people are all kinds of different. Accept them in all their differentness. 

Communication. Forming an intention. Communicate by touch. Be clear and firm. Move into a light dance mode where a verbal conversation can happen (I like this).

Ego death. Accept constructive criticism. Ask for criticism. Prioritise the partner's quirks over showing off own moves. Give partners credit for a good dance. Learn from other dancers on the dance floor. Be open-minded.

Self-care. Hydrate adequately. Take breaks (you have to do this yourself, because everyone and everything else can only push you to dance harder).

Self-knowledge and humility. What are my own preferences? What are my own boundaries? How do I play to strength? What are my deficiencies? What do I focus on next?

With my sister at the Halloween Party, Swingstation, October 2024 

FOOTNOTE: I would advise newer dancers (and my coaches would say the same) not to presume that your dance partner would remember or even be aware of your mistakes when you make them. The prevailing culture is that whenever something feels stuck, everyone defaults to blaming it on themselves. The implication is that everyone is more focused on themselves than on you than your anxiety-warped brain might imagine, and that in the end we all become our own worst critics. However, it would be a mistake to say that no one remembers the dance; I remember a lot of dances, most of them because they were very good.

I Can't Run Away From Myself

Lindy Hop Spiritual Meditations: Part 2

It was the Sunday after my-ex-and-I's wedding plans were cancelled. I was praying in St. Iggy's. It was a traumatic weekend, so I was praying extra hard. Being brutally honest, my prayers are most often a one-sided affair where I vent and Allah takes his time replying to my texts, to the extent I might doubt if he is really listening. 

To address this tendency, the Catholic praxis (as I was taught) would be to get one's ears perked up and predisposed to pick up Allah's hints, as the fact is that he is always saying something, even when he appears to be silent, and the rest of y'alls just too obtuse to hear anything most times

I heard Allah loud and clear that day. I was no superstitious oik who sees Jesus on toast or Mary on a daffodil, but I was pretty desperate, and therefore open!

You might have heard it said in spiritual testimony that the voice of Allah is "small, yet firm". I experienced it as a thought that builds and builds until it filled the room. The thought was this:

SHE CAN RUN AWAY FROM ME

I CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM MYSELF

During our last conversation and the unraveling of the last tendrils of our life together, my ex had played the psychologist and said I had "self-esteem issues". I have no idea which Sigmund Freud sleep paralysis demon inspired her to say this; besides, I am sure psychoanalysis was crossing a line, so it couldn't have been a thought from my own mind, or planted in me from her, because I was still very mad at her for leaving. So, this could only have come from above — I can't run away from my own issues.

The other odd thing was that I experienced this message as a Consolation. Imagine feeling at peace after being called out for your shit! Yet, here we are.

St. Iggy's

The Will of Allah

Lindy Hop Spiritual Meditations: Part 1

If I were someone else overhearing me say that I joined the Swing Dance community in Singapore because it was the Will of Allah, I would have laughed myself out of the room, because what the hell is even that

I am dead serious, however.

How the heck did I end up in Swing Dance?

The coincidences and chance encounters that led me to the dance floor were myriad: The first cause, for context, was a bad break-up and the me suddenly having sweet fucktons of free time on hand, free from wedding prep.

The proximal cause, however, was an Olafur Eliasson exhibition at the Singapore Art Museum (interim campus) where I wandered into, feeling lost. My friend Joseph Chua, who I had lost touch with for many years, appeared again to me, and he invited me to watch a dance performance where he and a few other mates would be performing in. This was a dance that goes with an installation of rigged colourful lights that shone onto a semi-permeable wall across the room, so that any one (dancers especially) could cast moving shadows that looked interesting.

No one warned me that there was gonna be audience participation

So I found out about that bit when one of the other dancers took me by the hand out of the blue. She led me to the middle of the shadow room, and we danced something. It wasn't Swing and it wasn't the athletic and expressive flourishes that the dancers were doing right before; I remember it was fast and I just bullshitted all my moves. But, it just felt so good

In Catholic praxis, we had been taught that in prayers one could come to a place of desolation or a place of consolation. This bit was definitely a consolation; which was poignant, considering that I was in the middle of a very desolate part of my life. I took some time to ponder this fact.

I still haven't explained: why Swing Dance, out of all possible dances?

Back in October 2022, Miguel de Jesus was heading a cell group under the Archdiocese. Among the group members was Arisa McIntyre, who was very involved in Swing dancing. She invited Miguel to Aliwal Arts Centre one Monday evening, alongside Mark Pereira, and then Miguel invited me. That Monday night, 2 Opus Dei members found Lindy Hop for the first time.

My first impression of the group was that, even for someone from the famously shady Opus Dei, that the community seemed cult-like. People were smiling way too much, seemed way too happy, were too friendly to outsiders, and everything was self-referential i.e. about the dance. However, after the Olafur Eliasson exhibition, where I was demurring which kind of dance class to get into, these qualities were also what came to my mind.

Lindy Hop is a happy dance. It grew out of the culture of slaves, and then of the working class. It is a silly dance. It is a dance danced by people who do not take themselves too seriously. These people live a life liberated from their harsh inner voices. They put adequate cardio into their exercise regimes. And, I think, I would like to be more like them.

What about my sister? How come she joined too?

I got her into it. Jamie could do with opportunities to meet new people. There was a discount for people who sign up for class with a friend, besides. 

Blogging from Unseo

I am now at a hotel in Unseo-dong, Jung-gu, Incheon, next to the airport. My trip has been very long. In fact, I think it has been too long and it seems hard to justify if not for some important things that I got done during this time, so I list them here.

Laos

1. My friend is here for undercover missionary work, so I don't mention his name in writing on blog. After some false starts, he could meet me after all. While I was on my way to him and in Vientiane I found he was raising some cash and some children's books for various causes. I bought the books and put in my share in a scholarship, in remembrance of a friend's mother who had recently passed
2. I bought a Hmong jacket in Luang Prabang. I used it to form part of an outrageous costume in a big upcoming dance party in Bangkok (Swing Era 2025)

Books from Vientiane

Thailand

1. Jamie joined Swing Era 2025 because she wanted to dance. I joined Swing Era 2025 because I was worried about everyone being kidnapped and shanghaied across to the Burmese border to catfish incels in perpetuity. Mission success! All my friends are home safe.
2. I danced a special dance with a girl on festival day 1. She had a different way of doing swingouts: she liked to give me a shove on the shoulder every time it happened. It was like the dance between Jeongnyeon (as Gumigeol) and Hong Jooran (as Guseuragi) in the show Jeongnyeon, and I was the freaking Hong Jooran. I was down bad for many days

Jme being iconic with Swing Era merch

Korea

1. Opus Dei activity this week. In addition to being down bad, I had also caught a cold after going to Thonburi. I spent many days not going on excursions. When I was almost recovered, I brought my mates on an excursion to Saenamteo Martyrs' Shrine and then Noryangjin Market. There, we followed our heart/gut bacterial overlords and had fried stuff and had no regrets
2. Waegwan Abbey is real-life community behind Amatodate. I finally visited them.

Saenamteo

The Swedish Embassy

IKEA Jurong East

I messed up. I fell asleep on a bed in IKEA and slept for too damn long. Now the place is closed, and I am trapped here for the night. How long has it been? The clocks are no help. Every one of them is set to a different time; PUGG says it's 1am, ROTBLÖTA says 3.30, and TUNNIS and STURSK and JÄNKIG are all set to different times also — I've slept enough, that's all I know! From Monday to Thursday I have been here, on the prowl for some furniture to revamp my room with. This has really got to stop; I must have eaten enough meatballs to qualify for Swedish citizenship!

I really need to get out of this place, though. Who is around? Who can I call? I stumble around in the dark in the sofa section, tripping over every sofa, calling out to anyone, security or otherwise, who might be able to get me out of the building. I trip over something which was decidedly not a sofa; it was curled up into a ball next to the LINANÄS, sleeping, but wakes up with a high-pitched yelp. Reflexively, it grabs and lights up a SOLVINDEN table lamp, and everything is visible again. This is an middle-aged gentleman, of South Asian extraction; although looking older than his age, and in addition unkempt and unwashed, like a man of the streets; his face wears a dour expression, his hair and beard overgrown; he has on a yellow jacket, like a mall employee.

"Did you get trapped in IKEA too?" I ask him.

The man struggles to form a word with his mouth, like someone who has not had the opportunity to speak for a long time. With difficulty and a pained expression, he hisses and sputters with his mouth-parts; he contorts and reworks his face muscles this way, then that way, until finally he exhales weakly... "ja."

"I'm sorry, sir. I should have asked your name first. How may I call you?"

"Jens-Olov," says the Indian man.

CHAPTER I: JENS-OLOV

Jens-Olov entered the mall when he was a teenager, where he then lost his way. Jens-Olov at one point lost track of how much time he has spent in IKEA, looking for his way out. So he began to count each passing day by carving marks onto the bedposts. From the time he started counting, twenty years have passed. Jens-Olov does not remember the name he had been born with.

"How did you get such a Swedish-sounding name?"

"It came with the jacket," replies Jens-Olov. "Oh! As for the jacket, I don't remember how I got hold of it either." He points to the name-tag on his jacket, as if that explains anything. Jens-Olov takes a long time to produce a complete sentence; owing to the length of time he had spent in IKEA, Swedish has become his main tongue, and he speaks English with difficulty.

[source]

"I am only kept alive by the köttbullar. Köttbullar is all I eat," says Jens-Olov. "I have eaten enough to become a citizen of Sweden." He sighs. He does not appear to be joking. "However, if you have one too many, you get one of these." He reaches into his pocket, and produces a dark red booklet with the words emblazoned on its cover: EUROPEISKA UNIONEN SVERIGE PASS.

"And if you get a Swedish passport, there is no... way... back... anymore."

I am in denial. This can't be real. This can't be fecking real! I reach for my jeans pocket for my phone, but find nothing. Looking down, I find with startlement and horror that the cardigan I had on before has turned into a yellow hoodie. I trip and fall backwards, landing on my behind against the mirror LINDBYN. I turn and see that on the back of my hoodie is printed, in big friendly blue letters, "Hej!", the same as on Jens-Olov's jacket... And, in my hair, a disturbing detail: the hair that I had dyed black last week has grown out a little, and the roots are showing up golden blonde. 

"No! No!" I scream in confusion and terror. "I would have chosen another colour!"

I struggle to get back on my feet. I crawl backwards, keeping my eye on the ominous figure of Jens-Olov. He does not give chase, but has a look of exhaustion and profound loneliness about him as he watches me beat my retreat through the showroom.

CHAPTER II: THE EMBASSY

I decide to give my best shot to escape. After some time, I have learned to adapt to life in the IKEA showroom. I have commandeered a SOLVINDEN lamp like Jens-Olov did. The trick here was to find where the batteries are kept, and that was surprisingly not a trivial task. Of course I grow tired, as any human would. I have slept on every bed by this time; personally, I have come to prefer the VALEVÅG mattress over other designs which only used foam, even if the price point can be a little bit higher. I have been judiciously avoiding the meatballs for sustenance.

I must have been at the absolute depths of the building, because I find myself now looking at a row of POÄNG armchairs. The strangeness of the arrangement, which just begins to hit me, is that they seem to be like seats in some sort of waiting room, though the intentionality was somehow not as apparent to me when the store was still open.

At the far end of the armchair section is a TORALD desk. An engraved nameplate on the desk reads:

KONSULÄRA TJÄNSTER
CONSULAR SERVICES

Of course there would be an embassy here! That explains the flag outside! It is only right that, being the centre of Swedish soft power abroad, that every branch of IKEA must therefore also function as an embassy.

There is a bell on the desk. I consider briefly to ring the bell, hoping that someone might appear who could help me... But then I remember Jens-Olov, who warned that all would be over if the person who shows up hands me the passport. In any case, what kind of person would show up at this kind of lonely place if I ring the bell? What kind of person... or non-person would it be? In what form?

And so, with my imagination heaping oppressive vision after oppressive vision upon my mind, I leave the embassy in a hurry. In the process I pass by a large poster, which reads:

It's OK to change your mind
You have 365 days to return your purchase
Visit IKEA.sg/returnpolicy

And I sink to the floor inconsolably. "It wasn't even my mind to start with!" I weep.

CHAPTER III: SKOGSDUVA

I find my way to the plush toys section. I have passed by here many times this night, trying to escape. The toys, which on a better day would have given me so much joy, tire me out instead, with their dead stares and their ridiculous facial expressions. I ponder a pile of BLÅHAJ who continue to live their non-lives unbotheredly in this cursed place.

[source]

A soft toy owl, SKOGSDUVA, sits on top of the pile of BLÅHAJ. This one begins to seem a little different from the others; the eyes, for example, seems a little less dead... The owl blinks, and I leap backwards with a gasp. Hoot! Hoot! goes Skogsduva. "What brings you here, Lauris?" Up she flies from the pile, and comes to perch on a fake branch.

"Who's Lauris?" I asked.

With her beak, the owl gestures to my hoodie, where a nametag had materialised without my noticing it. Angrily, I pull of the nametag and throw it onto the floor.

"Okay, fine. What is your name then, traveller?"

I ponder the owl's question for some time. I pick up the nametag from the floor and pin it back onto the hoodie. "I don't remember," I admitted glumly.

Skogsduva chuckles and shakes her head, which, if you understand how an owl's head works, she shakes it more than 180 degrees in either direction, a strange and rather unsettling imitation of a human gesture if you ever were there to witness it. "Hoot! Hoot!" hoots the owl once more. "So that is what is happening to you. Beware! If you spend any more time here, you will surely come to lose your sense of self, not just your name! Hoot! Hoot!"

"Far åt helvete, uggla!" I curse. "Did you come alive just to mock me? I have seen what happened to Jens-Olov."

Skogsduva remains cool as a cucumber. "You silly person! Did you not realise that I am on your side?" she smirks. "Have hope! You are not the only one who has come here and made it out alive. Let me... show you... a way!"

Skogsduva takes off from the fake branch, and flies through the mazelike hallways of IKEA. I follow her flight path with renewed enthusiasm, past the carpets, showrooms, and bathroom equipment. Finally we arrive at the study room section, where the bookshelves BILLY are arranged in a neat row.

CHAPTER IV: BILLY

"Here, Lauris," said Skogsduva. "Read every one of these books! And perhaps, one of these can hold the key to the way out." As it turns out, instead of fake books or pictures of books, as in other furniture stores, shelves in IKEA are filled with real books, albeit written in Swedish, and thus entirely decorative in function in this part of the world.

"Wait, Madam Owl," I implored. "Don't you know which one it is that I should read? I don't know Swedish, besides!"

"How would I know? I can't read!" laughs Skogsduva. "I'm an owl! Hoot! Hoot!" And off she flies, disappearing around a corner, leaving me fuming. "Förbannad!" I cuss again after her.

"För... bannad..." I repeat to myself, half-mortified, half in amazement.

I dive into BILLY, and pull out Bryt det sista tabut written by Maria Borelius. I read it hungrily. The meaning of the words reads as clear as day to me. It is a book on the importance of mental health in the workplace.

I read one more book off the shelf, then another, then another... I lose track of time and fail to register how much time has passed from reading the entire section's supply of books. At last I come to the work Vår beskärda del written by David Jonstad, which is about the challenge climate change poses for humanity. The very last page reads, among other things:

... therefore, as long as the international community reaches net-zero greenhouse gas emissions by 2015, humanity may just (barely, may I add) have a fighting chance to survive the 21st century.

By the way, if you fix all the HANDSKALAD articulated hand models into a rude gesture in the computer desk section, the next clue to lead you out of the building will appear. Lycka till!

CHAPTER V: HANDSKALAD

Off I rush to the computer desks. Around the place, the HANDSKALAD articulated hand models are on display. Some of them are holding random trinkets, others fixed in benign gestures. I put two and two together. No wonder every time I come down this section during the day, some of them are flipping the bird at the customers. Maybe, it was not just bored children or immature adults having little moments of frivolity with the wooden hands? Maybe, as in my case right now, flipping the bird was actually a means to survival? I tear up thinking about all the brave souls who fought and found their way back into society, valiantly flipping the bird with the HANDSKALAD models.

[source]

I flip the bird on all of the hands. There are seven in total. This triggers some of the lights in the store to turn on, the ones which project glowing arrow shapes onto the floor. Yes! I think to myself. Now all I need to do is to follow the arrows to the check-out! I follow the arrows for some time. 

Suddenly,  I hear a familiar voice. It is Jens-Olov. His voice sounds more shrill and aggressive than before; feral and guttural, like an enraged beast.

"Who flipped the bird on all the HANDSKALAD?" growls Jens-Olov from behind the partitioning wall, in Swedish. "Why is it that this is all an employee gets to do here?" he adds, presumably pushing one of the middle fingers back down as he says it. 

I stop running and start making my footsteps light and as silent as I could make them, hoping not to arouse his attention. I wonder with trepidation if the arrow lights might turn off, now that Jens-Olov has un-flipped some birds. To my relief, they continue to stay on.

A different menacing voice, like that of a brown bear, across a partition wall from another direction. This is accompanied with the cacophonous and urgent ringing of the desk bell. "Where are you, Lauris Ahlén? I have good news regarding your citizenship application!"

The Consul General! This terrifies me even further. I slow down to an agonizing pace, uncertain of whether moving further is a good idea after all. The further I go along the direction of the arrows, the louder the voices sound. It will not be long before either Jens-Olov or the Consul General gets a hold on me, with unthinkable consequences either way.

Then a small voice in me starts to pipe: Against the arrows. Go AGAINST the arrows.

No, it's absurd. I say back at it. I can't. I'm Singaporean.

And Singaporeans follow the rules.

I stop in my tracks. I sit with the thoughts for a while. 

Meanwhile, around the corner before me, a tray of kitchenware gets knocked over, and fall to the floor with a huge crash. It is Jens-Olov. A louder voice bubbles up from the primal depths of my Singaporean psyche, up to the surface of my consciousness:

BUT IT'S OKAY IF YOU DON'T GET CAUGHT

"Feck it!" I shout, and turn around to bolt. I run and keep running against the direction of the arrows on the ground. I hear Jens-Olov and the Consul General give chase behind me. At one point they collide into one another (or both into some pieces of furniture, it was hard to tell). Anyway I finally have them off my back. I now see the mall entrance in sight, and am about to exit IKEA through there like an uncouth barbarian, but I don't care anymore. I will become Singaporean again! I will have my eggs undercooked, eat all my things with chili, and be able to smell durian without gagging, just as I am born into this world to do.