I am releasing Project Octopus.
Just not in the way I originally planned.
Long live Project Octopus!

When I left one of my jobs, a dear colleague handed me a children’s book called Octopus Escapes Again and a matching octopus plushie. It’s served as a little reminder of my nature: one part hungry, one part escape artist. Occasionally I put a coconut shell on my head to confuse the enemy (RIP Bernardo).

So when I started shaping this multi-layered thing – this project with so many moving parts and so much more personality – I called it an octopus. It felt accurate at the time.

But that was me putting an octopus in an aquarium when its home is the ocean.
I knew it the moment I named it.

And recently, I finally admitted it’s time to let the thing go back to salt water.

Nothing creative I make should be forced to live under fluorescent lighting.
Not when the work itself knows it was built for currents, not containers.

Letting it swim is terrifying because it means I can’t control the timeline.
It means trusting myself enough to finish eventually and honestly.
A deeper level of trust I’m still growing into.

The same kind of trust that helped my people leave the cotton fields of the South with nothing but a hint of a better life in the North.
The trust that kept my ancestors waking up every day even when the fields they worked only showed them blood and no promise.

The same trust we celebrate in February, wear on T-shirts in June, and dance around in September.

As history cycles, I can feel the next turn approaching.
My own lightness returning.
And a small window of clarity widening inside me.

Working with the natural rhythm of life helps. So I’ll release the project as it wants to be released.

Not as a brand or a curated little idol for the false gods who love a tidy narrative. And false gods keep you playing their silly games.

I don’t have the patience for that.

I want to talk about the thing while it’s growing.
That’s how I work things out anyway. I write articles about articles. I write around the truth until the truth taps me on the shoulder and tells me “Girl, spit it out.”

At this point, I have entire essays living on index cards, and the people at the office supply store welcome me as a familiar.

The life of an octopus is glorious and short. I can’t keep waiting for some unreal opportunity that I refuse to imagine fully. I need the release.

And so:
I’m opening the tank.
I’m letting it go.
Long live Project Octopus!