Gabriel Cuomo

Link to the mini-piece is in the bio. Or, if you prefer a mobile experience. There’s a link In my story. Enjoy responsiblé.

See you at 6:30 today. (2/17)

After long last, I made it to a beach bonfire. Significantly less Coronas and sc****ly clad people though. Kind of a ripoff.

INT. THE GREEN ROOM - SUNSET

Art, a young botanist, walks down a long, glass hallway. She looks at the dense green vegetation outside; a bit of daylight is left. She flips open her gold pocket watch, closes it, and quickens her pace.

Art pushes through the double door. Above it hangs a hazard sign that indicates no human dancing. She notes it.

Art scans the room. A house of thick glass divides the green mass outside from the plants inside. Each plant dances to its own noiseless beat. She notices a row of flasks across the room filled with a dark magenta liquid.

She begins walking, pauses, and starts again. Each step is awkward, rhythmless. At one point the rippling plants almost entice her into a beat, but she resists. She stutters her way across the room and reaches out for flask. Something clings to it. One of the dancing fronds curls around the flask’s neck. It appears to be wooing the flask. She sucks her teeth at the vine. It doesn’t release. Art clears her throat. Nothing. She tutts, calls, and coos. Still nothing. She furrows her brow and ponders for a moment. Then she c***s her head, looks down, back up, and performs the tiniest jig. The dancing frond rears back. The bush behind it slows to a stop.

Art stares. She isn’t moving. The plant is motionless. Everything in the room has stilled. The lack of rustle is loud. Then a small rustle sounds off from the corner. Then another, and a wave of pulsating grows from the plants and extends back into the frond. Art smiles, nods, and releases her breath.

She pulls the Erlenmeyer to her face. The fluid now glows electric pink. The light creates a shadow of sticky sap leftover from the frond. Art removes a wipe from a small protective case in her immaculate leather lab coat. She wipes away the sap, careful to get every smudge of the sticky substance. She reaches into her opposite pocket, Opens a separate container with a hazard sign that reads “not for lunches” and snaps the soiled cloth inside.

There is an audible crack of glass. All the plants stop dancing. Art freezes.

(Continue story in Link in bio) @ Atlanta, Georgia

𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 - 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘰𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵.⁣
⁣
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦? 𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵-⁣
⁣
“Rye! buddy! be careful around the water okay?” His mother shouted from under a short striped umbrella. She didn't lookup.⁣
⁣
Rye looked up at her and back down at the foam. It was receding from the feet of his tiny action figure. He paused.⁣
⁣
𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢?⁣
⁣
He lifted his head and squinted. Out where the fuzzy pale orange of the sky was just touching a dark blue. 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘳? ⁣
⁣
He looked back down at the dark blue of his action figures suit. ⁣
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦? ⁣
The action figure leaped over the next foamy approach and skipped her feet along the water’s edge. She skied effortlessly across the line of it. ⁣
⁣
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 ⁣
𝘰𝘳 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥. ⁣
𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦. ⁣
𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦. ⁣
⁣
Rye’s action figure launched off a new surge of water. She landed perfectly on solid ground. After a few flips of course. ⁣
⁣
𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴?⁣
⁣
Rye looked back up at the ocean and imagined skiing across it effortlessly. He looked back down to see his action figure subdued up to her waste in wet sand. ⁣
⁣
𝘖𝘩 𝘯𝘰! 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥! 𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦-

(Note: my point is at the end) I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about how people stress. It’s such a fitting word for the idea. The same one we use to describe carrying potential energy. My restless mind flicks to when I was young. My brother & I would soak branches and wedge them bent. We’d let them dry this way. We would then force them to recurve the opposite way and loop a piece of shoestring to hold the tension. Before you gawk, I was from the suburbs, and 9, so my bows weren’t exactly lethal. They’d usually just snap after a few gleeful launchings of a bent stick parading itself as an arrow. Sad really - never lived up to its potential.

People are a lot like bows under pressure. Yet our psyche’s, souls, beings, grit, whatever you’d like to call them to have no physical qualities (at least mine doesn’t?). We have no laws of physics to determine what will break is, bend us, recurve is into some tool for launching misshaped, misunderstood missiles. We just have an ineffable, sometimes mailable “being” that’s oddly dissenting in its utterance of “you can’t and never could” & “never ever ever ever ever give up”. (I like to think Winston Churchill coaches my superego.)

Without realizing it we simply live in this stress. We accept our dry, unwieldy, and painful position. Then instead of fixing it, we restring ourselves into something more complex and more stressed. (But capable of launching twigs at incredible speeds.) That is - until we break.

We know people under pressure don’t always break. Sometimes they even come back from that quivering, pent up place with revolutionary ideas. Some people use this - attempt to tame it. Stress has become their favorite pet.

[Hard Swerve]

I’d like to think this also applies to humanity and the current state of global warming. I think when pushed humans make remarkable strides. So I’m adding my voice to strengthen the draw. It’s time we start using the stress to catalyze some change. If we act like nothing is wrong we will break, but if we push we may launch ourselves into something amazing & sustainable.

(Note: my point is at the end)
I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about how people stress. It’s such a fitting word for the idea. The same one we use to describe carrying potential energy. My restless mind flicks to when I was young. My brother & I would soak branches and wedge them bent. We’d let them dry this way. We would then force them to recurve the opposite way and loop a piece of shoestring to hold the tension. Before you gawk, I was from the suburbs, and 9, so my bows weren’t exactly lethal. They’d usually just snap after a few gleeful launchings of a bent stick parading itself as an arrow. Sad really - never lived up to its potential.

People are a lot like bows under pressure. Yet our psyche’s, souls, beings, grit, whatever you’d like to call them to have no physical qualities (at least mine doesn’t?). We have no laws of physics to determine what will break is, bend us, recurve is into some tool for launching misshaped, misunderstood missiles. We just have an ineffable, sometimes mailable “being” that’s oddly dissenting in its utterance of “you can’t and never could” & “never ever ever ever ever give up”. (I like to think Winston Churchill coaches my superego.)

Without realizing it we simply live in this stress. We accept our dry, unwieldy, and painful position. Then instead of fixing it, we restring ourselves into something more complex and more stressed. (But capable of launching twigs at incredible speeds.) That is -
until we break.

The analogy isn’t well suited by my oddly informed childhood weapon design, because people under pressure don’t always break and instead sometimes come back from that quivering, pent up place with solutions and revolutionary ideas. The truth is we are sometimes aware of our stress. We attempt to tame it. Stress has become our favorite pet.

[Hard Swerve]

I’d like to think this also applies to humanity and the current state of global warming. I think when pushed humans make remarkable strides. So I’m adding my voice to strengthen the draw. It’s time we start using the stress to catalyze some change. If we act like nothing is wrong we will pull without reference and break, but if we can fuel to the metaphorical fire.

For my friends.

Headache! You’re worse than a
Sneaky-snake.
Happy Birthday, my love.