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You&& (working title) is a queer novella about when home is other people, including the monsters lurking in the woods. Check out the about page here. You&& is a sequel to Sometimes The Mountain Buries You.
Basin's small cabin is warm, warmly lit, and full of people. Windows cracked open vent warmth into cool night air. Windows cracked open vent laughter into cool night air.
Basin's car isn't the only vehicle in the yard, the front door is crowded with shoes, the ample-cushioned ample seating of the living room is overfull capacity. The thick dark brown carpet resembling grizzly bear pelt surrounding the ample-cushioned ample seating is a cityscape of cans and bottles, mugs—none Basin's favourite—and glasses. There's already a half-soaked dishtowel from one overturned tower.
In the kitchen, Marjorie elbows and hip-checks a snickering Harpreet over the division of strawberry rhubarb pie onto every last plate and bowl in the cupboards not already in the sink from dinner. Jacob shoos them out of the way to retrieve the teapot, taken out of hir hands a step into the living room by Lyydia eagerly refilling mugs. Yawning children insist they are awake enough for pie as every last plate and bowl in the cupboards is handed out to every last person in the living room by way of bucket brigade.
Mid-listening to a story from Divya, Basin takes up the plate put to their hands with a soft thanks. Here, creating memories of an evening with friends, being recounted memories of Divya, the first taste of strawberry rhubarb pie pulls up ridge and furrow populated by abundant leaves. Under hot summer sun the dirt underfoot is dry. A breeze feels good across sweating skin and in lungs caught up in dust devils. Crouching in a furrow to hunt out the brilliant red under abundant leaves, the taste of the hot summer sun in the warmth of strawberries picked by dirt and sweat hands is sublime joy.
Like elk and chamomile, like nettle and more plants Basin has picked, this memory of picking strawberries pulls on a complex blend of emotions. They tie to Basin's current emotions, current basking in the company of the people who are their home. You're starting to understand the connection between here-now, memory, and emotion.
The number of people packed into Basin's small cabin is dizzying to you. Everyone's individual enjoyment of each other's company—something that you understood from when Basin looks about the cabin but now here in the moment—is tensfolds and alive. Bursts of laughter, eyes smiling at each other, caring touches. Basin's small cabin teeming with home, as defined by Basin's needs.
Between bites of pie and exclamations that 'no, you did not', Basin catches sight of you piled up against the woodshed. They press their lips into a flat line.
Now is not a time for you to visit.
You were already leaving.
With every last plate and bowl in the cupboards stacked next to the sink—Selene already washing and Elm already drying—the conversation lulls only for the sake of yawning children finally put to bed. Quiet but lively still as cans and bottles, mugs and glasses are checked their contents with empties sacrificed to a filling garbage bag by the crowded shoes or next in line for Selene and Elm.
Nights like these are why Basin lives here. Nights like these are the culmination of every train hopped, every squat and crumbling collective house, road trip and band tour, work camp and blockade, zine party and cooking too much on more than just Monday evenings to see that friends and family are fed. Nourished. The way friends and family nourish Basin.
Basin's small cabin is warm, warmly lit, and full of people. Windows cracked open vent warmth into cool night air. Windows cracked open vent laughter into cool night air.
Basin's car isn't the only vehicle in the yard, the front door is crowded with shoes, the ample-cushioned ample seating of the living room is overfull capacity. The thick dark brown carpet resembling grizzly bear pelt surrounding the ample-cushioned ample seating is a cityscape of cans and bottles, mugs—none Basin's favourite—and glasses. There's already a half-soaked dishtowel from one overturned tower.
In the kitchen, Marjorie elbows and hip-checks a snickering Harpreet over the division of strawberry rhubarb pie onto every last plate and bowl in the cupboards not already in the sink from dinner. Jacob shoos them out of the way to retrieve the teapot, taken out of hir hands a step into the living room by Lyydia eagerly refilling mugs. Yawning children insist they are awake enough for pie as every last plate and bowl in the cupboards is handed out to every last person in the living room by way of bucket brigade.
Mid-listening to a story from Divya, Basin takes up the plate put to their hands with a soft thanks. Here, creating memories of an evening with friends, being recounted memories of Divya, the first taste of strawberry rhubarb pie pulls up ridge and furrow populated by abundant leaves. Under hot summer sun the dirt underfoot is dry. A breeze feels good across sweating skin and in lungs caught up in dust devils. Crouching in a furrow to hunt out the brilliant red under abundant leaves, the taste of the hot summer sun in the warmth of strawberries picked by dirt and sweat hands is sublime joy.
Like elk and chamomile, like nettle and more plants Basin has picked, this memory of picking strawberries pulls on a complex blend of emotions. They tie to Basin's current emotions, current basking in the company of the people who are their home. You're starting to understand the connection between here-now, memory, and emotion.
The number of people packed into Basin's small cabin is dizzying to you. Everyone's individual enjoyment of each other's company—something that you understood from when Basin looks about the cabin but now here in the moment—is tensfolds and alive. Bursts of laughter, eyes smiling at each other, caring touches. Basin's small cabin teeming with home, as defined by Basin's needs.
Between bites of pie and exclamations that 'no, you did not', Basin catches sight of you piled up against the woodshed. They press their lips into a flat line.
Now is not a time for you to visit.
You were already leaving.
With every last plate and bowl in the cupboards stacked next to the sink—Selene already washing and Elm already drying—the conversation lulls only for the sake of yawning children finally put to bed. Quiet but lively still as cans and bottles, mugs and glasses are checked their contents with empties sacrificed to a filling garbage bag by the crowded shoes or next in line for Selene and Elm.
Nights like these are why Basin lives here. Nights like these are the culmination of every train hopped, every squat and crumbling collective house, road trip and band tour, work camp and blockade, zine party and cooking too much on more than just Monday evenings to see that friends and family are fed. Nourished. The way friends and family nourish Basin.
