Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
There’s something comforting about octopuses—soft and strange and smarter than they have any right to be. I like things that refuse to make sense at first and then, slowly, unfold their genius.
Genius isn’t hyperbole with them; they feel, they learn from people and places, and they plan around both. Which is why their protocol for newness is my favorite rule of thumb: don’t thrash—test.
Faced with change, one arm slips out like a question—touch, taste, retreat, try again.
If the verdict is yes, they drag the new object home and redecorate; if it bristles, they rise dark and tall and issue a precise not today.
They broadcast their moods in real time, skin speaking for them, which is frankly considerate.
If we, as humans, took notes, half our misunderstandings would disappear.
But we have to make do with the brains we evolved, and mine works best on routine and clean expectations.
We’re nearly a month into the semester, and the rocky reboot has settled into my default settings: show up, log data, out-stare doubt.
It feels good to feel the outline of the old Coralie again.
To know exactly what I’m here for. I am—have been—a person intent on decoding cephalopod neuroplasticity.
Most of my classes consist of neuroethology, scientific writing, and a few electives, but I’ve secured a lab bench in the marine science building to refine short-term husbandry for a Day octopus (Octopus cyanea).
My thesis proposal isn’t due for a few months; so for now I get the quiet luxury of academia—clear protocols, steady timers, and work that actually moves the needle.
The minor downside of logging this many lab hours is repeated contact with Holden’s more-than-obvious dislike. BIOL 403 is mostly Dr. Kymbert’s show, but he supervises more lab blocks than any other TA, materializing exactly when I don’t need him to.
Our exchanges are brisk and civilized. He answers every question; I, in turn, do Olympic-level contortions to never have one—scouring protocols, cross-checking manuals, basically performing a solo literature review before I risk entering his gravitational field.
The compensatory upside to this busy schedule is coffee.
Not new to me, though newly essential. My favorite shop is nestled right near campus and has wooden walls with turquoise trim and small round tables that were most definitely not built for large groups.
It’s perfect. Quiet, a few two-tops inside and out, the kind of place where productivity feels inevitable.
This morning I stared down the glass case, ran a quick cost-benefit analysis on the lilikoi scone versus the bacon frittata, and selected the statistically correct option: both.
Plus a latte. Several hours of research and writing later, I am deliciously overcarbed and mentally scrambled—which I believe is the frittata effect.