Danse cerebre

I am sitting at the poolside of Tanglin club. A colonial slice in the middle of the bustling and exploding Singapore. There almost seem to be an immediate relief from the outside. The severity of the precision in Singapore – the way the traffic moves, the very precise way of people walking, even the trees look so precise the way they stand and the way they are shaped. A complete lack of spontaneity. Monastic. And with all these precision and symmetry there is no beauty. What is missing is movement. Beauty comes in movement. Precison is death. Its frozen. There is no place for anyone else. There are no surprises. There is no flowering. The club is a worm hole in the space-time continuum. You go back to a time where there was neither a rush nor a need for precision. A time of repose and watch the clouds pass by. There is order without precision. There is time for a dance. Like dance with its steps yet all the room in the world for a personal expression.