Intimacy has more than one definition.

Intimate details.

Intimate relationship.

A polyamorous person intimates intimacy in public and in privacy.

In the span of a few hours, one watches the intimacy of actors pretending to live intimately over 19+ months on a trip to Europa, becomes intimate with the details of one person’s life followed by another and another.

Back to the dance — following and leading.

Opposites attract.

A young man loses his girlfriend, then within two weeks, his grandmother (like a mother to him) has triple-bypass surgery, and a week later, he tears his meniscus.  He, a man half Brazilian, half American, blacker than black, but nearly hairless thanks to his Brazilian half, no need for a Brazilian wax.  Depression is easy to give in to but one must move one, mustn’t one, especially when one is so far away from his grandmother he has to fax his love and hugs to her?

And the depths of the stories of another — dear, sweet Bai — the daughter of a Baptist preacher, related to others in her family of Anabaptist faith, almost married a charismatic Pentecostal follower; she played piano, led the choir, organized/arranged church music leadership, her mother looked like Audrey Hepburn who has an inheritance of seven figures’ worth of jewelery to pass on; moved in with her boyfriend before marrying, got pregnant, her father telling her that if you’re going to sin, do so willingly and with gusto before God’s hand sweeps down [in punishment?], willing to face the consequences of your actions; got tattoos in her early 30s; more stories to tell than I can remember to write down…

And our resident Frenchman, who is unique in his own way outside of the fact he is from France.  Likes firm mattresses, no need for a boxsprings; bought a room full of furniture for $100 (was asked $80 but offered $20 more to get help moving the stuff) from an expat returning home overseas; his best time of the day is from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m.

A pretty young woman who seems so familiar, got into nursing school a semester ago, and along with her ROTC program must keep her grades up to complete her nursing degree.

A revolving door of stories.

The waitress/server who looks 21 but says she is 32.

The young man who spent all day playing his drum set and is looking for a fulltime gig with a band full of players who are serious about having fun practicing/performing music all the time.

Trying to understand where life is going to take us next as faces move in and out of the fog/noise of what we do to make ends meet.

On the way to the outpost, the happy place, the rest stop, the relaxation, the meditation point where friends, workers, companions, and lovers get together at the end of the day of setting up shop on Mars, where there is little in the way of the “fat of the land” to aid us when we’re unable to make ends meet.

That’s where the stories and the creativity begin.

Where endings are written.

The conflicts, the drama, the clash and mesh of personalities.

One day you’re sharing rent for a flat and the next day you’re out on your own paying full price.

If you can’t handle authority, you become your own boss.

And if you can’t handle that?  Well, that’s where the next story picks up.

How to generate magic, mesmerising, hypnotising, convincing you that what I have to give you you are willing to exchange labour/investment credits to have for yourself — goods, services, imaginary images, memories that last a lifetime.

When the government foments minirevolutions to keep the majority in its pocket, you know that there is nothing that can’t be done, given the right resources and enough time, or even if there is not enough time and too few resources.

All about adaptation.

You want the truth?

There is no truth.  There is only illusion.

A set of states of energy is not even a set, or states, or energy.

Understand that, you understand nothing.  And everything.

The story is king.  The plot the queen.  The subplots are children plotting to overthrow.