Mistaking the Third Arm for a Tool

Preface Here, in language, is the closest I have come to tracing the patterns I live inside — and the patterns I see others living inside, too. While I write this primarily for myself — to understand my own position in this world — I hope that those who read it, especially those seeking to understand autistic ways of being, might encounter something that invites reflection, recognition, or perhaps even relief. This piece is best read as part of a broader orientation named in Threadwork, which introduces the full triptych of essays it belongs to. It is structured narrative not anecdotal narrative. It may challenge the reader used to personal stories, but my purpose is to precisely develop an epistemic framework, not an emotional one. If it reaches someone who, like me, has carried this structure silently, may it feel like confirmation. If it reaches someone who has never imagined it could be otherwise, may it offer a glimpse.

~ 1 ~

Introduction

When the subject of social fluidity comes up, it is almost always framed in the language of tools.

— You just need better social skills. — There are techniques for entering conversations more smoothly. — With practice, you’ll pick up the interpersonal strategies everyone uses.

But a tool is, by definition, an externality — like the stick a chimp uses to pull termites from a mound. For a moment, let’s consider that the rituals of small talk, phatic gestures (those meant not to convey information but to maintain social connection), and rhythm-sustaining topic changes are not tools at all, but embodied capacities. This is no mere semantic distinction. If they are intrinsic — biologic, epigenetic, reflexive, and non-volitional — the paradigm matters. I am autistic. From the outside I see not a tool, but an appendage. A third arm — invisible to and unfelt by its user, but constantly in motion. When thought of benignly as a tool, it promises the possibility of inclusion for all because with enough effort and practice, well, it just becomes second nature. How democratic! A tool available to any who wish to pick it up and master it. But the truth — suggested by my recent encounter with Malinowski’s meticulous 1923 paper, in which he coined the term phatic communion to describe speech that maintains connection rather than transmits information — is: it isn’t. It’s an arm. A third, invisible arm. Where is mine? My third arm? Oh — wait — I only have two. What if your biology necessitates a relational existence through a wholly different architecture? No third arm exists for you that snaps out the beat — so you value coherence over tempo. Instead of motion, you value depth. Not by choice, but by absence: of automatic phatic distraction. What if the very way you naturally offer connection isn’t even recognized as connection?

~ 2 ~

The Third Arm

The ability to balance with another on this conversational beam — what is called conversational ease — depends on this third arm, perfectly supporting the cognitive center of gravity of the pair. Each act — small talk, a timed topic shift, phatic signals of shared safety, a rhythmic nod, or a verbal affirmation — restores the delicate balance of interaction. A balance so instinctive it rivals the miracle of the inner ear keeping us upright. These gestures are neurological, woven into what is often called typical brain development — though ‘typical’ is hardly the only path. But we all know the first thing anxious new parents scan for in their newborn is that infantile returning gaze — which is followed by existential relief when it arrives because it signals, 'Our baby is normal.' This invisible limb is balancing, steering, and reaching toward others automatically. Though it does more: it makes constant, subtle contact. It shakes the interlocutor’s own invisible third hand. It rests lightly, reassuringly on their shoulder. It pats them gently on the back to say: we’re in this together. Neurotypicals rarely notice these gestures as optional or mechanical. They are experienced as the very fabric of social being — framed as moral, almost character itself. Your classic charmer is peak-neurotypical, born or self-made into a virtuoso of this rhythm. Yet every neurotypical person knows the rhythm. Knows the ambient music. Some dive in, some sit out for a time, some dance less than others. But all know: this is disco, and when the motivation arises, they will dance too. And so, here is the difference that structures everything that follows: I enter — as I always have — into this space where I don’t hear the music at all. I wonder — my awkward, robotic imitation of the stray movements I can detect — does it merely appear to be a lack of skill or ease? Perhaps. But if every safe interaction is defined by this movement, then entering as my unmasked self would feel destabilizing to others, like a breach of contract — like abstaining from friendliness itself. Yet I can attest: it is not refusal. We listen intently, though we may not hear the music. The task is to compose in the intricate, interwoven style of a complex contrapuntal fugue. But the notes return to us garbled, meaningless — shapes no one explains, no one can explain. Still, we are expected to improve, to gain ease, iteratively. If we fall silent, or revert to plain speech—without ornament, without connection to the rhythm—it is because we cannot hear what you are hearing. Not well enough to join.

~ 3 ~

The Pedaling

As a corollary of the axiomatic rule of this dance — a dance governed as much by physics as by custom — conversational inertia must never set in. Imagine for a moment: the penny-farthing bicycles of old—what happens when you stop pedaling? You tumble and dismount. Restarting takes immense energy. Conversational disruption is like this for many: unless there is a teleological or transactional reward, it’s often felt not worth the bother. Hence, the graceful exit: “Good talking to you…” —which I never felt comfortable saying or hearing. For many, safety in conversation is not found in meaning or depth, but in motion. Smoothing, affirming, frequent course changes to match the ever-changing terrain — these are a kind of perpetual pedaling. Just checking in, jokes, and a bottomless inventory of innocuous subject seeds are mostly not about content. They are about not falling over. What neurotypicals often experience as ease or lightness in these moments is not accidental — it’s because the rhythm itself is regulating; the rhythm is the meaning. Small talk, from within that frame, isn’t a burden but a form of nervous system smoothing. It lowers the sense of pressure because it operates like a social exhale — a shared background hum that signals, “No threat here.” For me, though, this same ritual often increases pressure, demanding cognitive resources right at the moment when I’m preparing for something more important. When the rhythm breaks — a pause, a delayed response, a refusal — or in my case an inability — to mirror, it feels like a wobble. And that wobble is read as a rupture. Even if disagreement was not meant. Even if nothing important was at stake. This is why autistic stillness can feel threatening in neurotypical spaces. We aren’t pedaling. We may be standing at a crossroads, seeing the vastness of a psychic landscape, carefully marking the map, our eyes gently de-focused — because the scene includes everything, not just the person in front of us. In silence, we may actually be grounded, intentional, listening. But if motion is equated — even subconsciously — with social safety, our stillness feels like imbalance. Our lack of eye contact, like non-willingness to share the pedaling burden. The conclusion is almost automatic: Something must be wrong. When I am not the focus, I often track the whole system effortlessly. I notice how others connect, how they disengage, how conversational pedaling carries them. I can see the structure precisely. But when attention turns to me, there is no time for observation. The improvisatory machinery takes over — impelled, urgent, but unsatisfying. It is not that I join the rhythm, it is that I flail for balance. I escape crashing, barely. Afterward, my mind circles. Am I autistic? Am I just shy? But I don’t feel shy. This is what distinguishes us from shy neurotypicals. A shy person may hesitate, but they still sense the rhythm. Their pedaling may be tentative, but the bike stays upright. They may even re-enter more smoothly after a fitful start, because they do not carry the sharp memory of having struggled to get moving. But for me — and if I may respectfully offer, for us — it is the attempt itself that is fraught. The demand is not just enter the conversation, but enter already pedaling, on a bike whose mechanism was never built into our bodies. And yet, there is another layer. Here is a glimpse of what I mean — not a story, but the pattern itself: When I am allowed to share my internal map — when someone is curious not about rhythm but about structure — there is no more pedaling. The machinery falls away. Instead, the connection is real. And when that happens, my impulse is not to retreat, but to reverse roles. To offer the same presence back. This is, for me, sociality. The give and take of depth through excavation.

~ 4 ~

The Invisible Labor

Before I can describe the alternative, I have to name a part of this effort, so constant, so consuming, that I am never unaware of it. This is not an anecdote, but the texture of daily life. I always feel the asymmetry. It is I who am being generous — though no one calls it that, and I no longer expect them to. I accept the terms of the interaction, staying in the shallows, not because I prefer it, but because I know the other cannot — or will not, because it’s too vulnerable — meet me where I live. Or worse, should we accidentally drift into depth, they will scramble back to the surface and leave me there alone, exposed, stranded with everything I had been holding back. Simulation is not reciprocity Every few minutes — sometimes less — I must shift the conversation. Not because the rhythm calls for it, but because I sense the need to divert. I can feel the risk of misunderstanding or rupture just ahead, the collapse of the modicum of momentum I was able to scrounge up. But unlike those who improvise fluidly, following the conversational melody, I do not have a stored repertoire of transitions. It plays out like this: each shift is performed mid-sentence. I do not begin with a topic, but with a placeholder — “So...” — and from there, I assemble the next move on the fly. In the space of a second, I must decide: do I turn this toward them, or stay general? The next word is either “you” or “it,” and even then, I still don’t yet know what I am talking about. Having chosen that, I must select a verb — but which verb? What does this verb now narrow me down to for the clause that follows? Will this end as a statement or a question? All this happens quickly, but never intuitively. I am not improvising in rhythm. I am constructing under pressure. And all the while, these calculations must be done smoothly enough that I do not reveal the tactic itself. If I fumble, the artifice is exposed. If I pause too long between “So…” and whatever follows, the shift is suspect. If I divert too often, I seem evasive. This is not improvisation. This is building the bridge as I walk across it. I manage not just the content, but the perception of the maneuver. It must look casual, as though I, too, am simply pedaling along. But I am not. I am calculating, fabricating, performing — all while pretending none of this is happening. And it is not because I lack something to say. I have thoughts, questions, often more than enough. It is that the architecture demands that I suspend, fragment, or reroute them constantly. What emerges is not the full shape of what I would offer, but only what I can safely, tactically release — given the structure I am navigating. And the worst of it — the part I will name plainly — is that they think we are simply talking. They think we are sharing equally. They feel no weight. They hear no ticking clock. They mistake my careful, calculated labor for rhythm. They do not slow. They do not adjust. They do not notice. And I do resent it. Not because I want praise. Not because I am slighted. But because I am carrying the entire weight of the adaptation — and they mistake it for symmetry. They think this is just how talking works. It is not. It is how I survive, how I maintain connection. But it takes a real physical toll. From the inside, it is a relentless, recursive labor hidden in plain sight.

~ 5 ~

The Quiet Cost

And here is the deeper cruelty: It is not just that I am laboring alone. It is that, from the neurotypical side, this labor is seen as unnecessary. The phatic rhythm — the nods, affirmations, and timely shifts — is treated not as style, but as the very contract of communication. It is the key to a hidden gate. An unconscious test. Will you, too, join in the reciprocal contingency? Will you signal before you mean? Will you affirm the rhythm before you articulate the content? But I am walking with a different kind of key entirely. Where the phatic gatekeeper looks for contingency, I offer coherence. Where they ask for tempo, I offer structure. The difficulty is that subtext itself undermines the structure I seek. My mind organizes the world through transparent patterns — through what is stated, stable, and consistent. When emotion is layered beneath words in contrast to their literal content, or meaning is implied through tone rather than form, it fractures the coherence I depend on. For neurotypicals, that layering is like turning the knob that aligns the left and right speakers—tuning the emotional frequency so the interaction feels smooth, not necessarily so that it has meaning. But for me, those adjustments don’t clarify; they obscure. What was literal becomes unstable. What was clear becomes conditional. And so, when I approach the interaction in good faith — when I offer exactly what I have, plainly — the gate does not open. It does not even register my key. I am not let through. Worse still, my approach is mistaken for refusal, for coldness, for withholding. What is offered as careful, thoughtful presence is heard as absence. What is meant as generosity is seen as indifference. I am not outside because I refused to enter. I am outside because the structure only recognizes one kind of key — and mine is of a different make altogether. Restraint Is Not Belonging And sometimes, when I seem to have entered — when I seem relaxed, comfortable, fluent — it’s not because I’ve finally found the rhythm. It’s because I’ve held back the part of me that would disrupt it. What you experience as my ease is often my restraint. What feels like peace to you is sometimes the silence I choose, so you don’t have to feel the overwhelm of meeting me too fully. For most neurotypical people, social life is like getting up from a chair and walking to the sink. The body adjusts without conscious thought — balance is managed automatically; muscles, joints, and breath coordinate smoothly. There is no need to pause and name each component. You simply walk. For me, it is like having to use a handheld control unit to operate each muscle, tendon, and joint separately. I must consciously manage balance, weight shifts, breath, and alignment, issuing instructions one by one. It is not that I cannot stand and walk — it is that I must do so deliberately, at cost. The same is true of social navigation. I can move through it. I do. In fact, I often initiate. I have learned that connection rarely happens without someone starting. So I practice starting. I say hello, I comment on the weather, I offer an opening. But once inside the conversation, I often flail at sustaining it. And here is the quiet trap: Because I can approximate social rhythm when necessary — because I have learned how to open a conversation, how to mimic the small adjustments of topic and tone — I sometimes appear fluent. This is where the misunderstanding often blooms. To an outside observer, it might seem that, with enough practice, I could bridge the gap entirely — that this is just a matter of social skills, like learning to dance better. But this is not about polishing technique. It is about lacking the limb that makes dancing natural in the first place. And when I appear fluent, I doubt myself. I begin to think: “Perhaps I am just shy.” “Maybe I’ve just been intellectualizing too much.” “Maybe I haven’t practiced enough.” But it is not practice that is missing. It is the third arm. What looks, from the outside, like mild social awkwardness or introversion is, on the inside, the compensator's paradox. The more I have studied and practiced — the more I have consciously simulated — the more I seem to almost belong. And yet, every conversation reminds me: “I am not playing jazz; I am solving an equation to approximate the jazz others are playing.” Beyond mimicry, I am engaged in something even stranger: not just performing face-work, but performing meta-face-work. I am simulating the neurotypical's own simulation — estimating their adjustments so that I might approximate their moves, without ever being able to feel them. It is choreography without music. Yet even when I succeed — even when I have navigated the interaction smoothly — I rarely experience the relief that NTs seem to find in these moments. What I feel is exhaustion. Discontinuity. Sometimes even a quiet sense of absence — “That wasn’t me, that was the simulation.” I suspect this is why, in certain moments, I have felt less like a participant and more like the out-of-body experience of the social body itself — something ghostly, like an astral projection. Watching. Present, but hovering just outside. This is also why the question of reciprocity — “Don’t we all make accommodations in relationships?” — does not quite land where intended. Yes, all relationships involve adaptation. But for me, the adaptation is not an adjustment within a shared dance. It is building a parallel path beside it — often alone.

~ 6 ~

Preface to the Alternative

What’s hardest to convey isn’t just that I experience the world differently, but that the terms of that experience belong to a different structure altogether. Even those who know me intimately — who’ve shared years, routines, and real care — cannot quite enter it. Not for lack of love; I know I am loved. But rhythm is the default reality, the beat is the invitation, and the third arm is invisible. What I describe next is not compensation for a missing rhythm. It’s a different architecture of presence entirely. Others have traced this pattern, too — autistic theorists and writers who have given language to the structural, rather than personal, nature of this difference. I am not alone in noticing it. But this is my version, shaped by the particulars of my own life, my own rhythms, and my own longing. I am glad to be able to finally give my experience the fullest airing. Not because it is new — I have lived it for as long as I can remember — but because, until now, it has never had the chance to be spoken in its full shape. The difficulty has never been about knowledge. It is about the texture — the feel of constantly reaching out with the only gestures I have, and having them missed. Not out of rejection, but because they are unseen. I reach not with the third arm — which I do not have — but with the two I do. I am really speaking out of longing. Because I have tasted what it is to be received — without rhythm, without tempo, without phatic negotiation. It happens when, together, we step outside of the dance entirely.

~ 7 ~

The Alternative

There is another way — not a story, but a different architecture entirely. It is not about substituting for the third arm, nor is it a workaround for the missing bicycle. I am not without social flow. In acting, in movement improvisation, in dharma discussion — any space where the structure is explicit — I do not falter. In fact, I can improvise beautifully, because I know where the ground is. When the rhythm is made clear, when it is governed by image, structure, or shared intention rather than hidden social signals, I find myself fully present. It is not that I cannot improvise — It is that I improvise through structure, not through unspoken rhythm. This is not hypothetical. I have lived it. When conversation is allowed to slow — not collapse, but slow — a different kind of social exchange becomes available. In dharma discussion, for example, the absence of ornament is expected. There is no demand to prove belonging through nods and affirmations. We meet without pedaling, without the expectation of rhythm. The conversation holds because we are both simply looking. One speaks, one listens, and silence is allowed to be part of the conversation. Autistic connection, when unburdened from the expectation of phatic motion, does not resist sociality. It seeks it. But it seeks it through coherence rather than contingency. What I offer, and what others like me often offer, is not tempo but alignment. Not the signal of we’re safe because we are moving, but we’re safe because we are here, and what is offered is real. I offer the following, even when it goes unnoticed because the only currency is motion. And I give it freely: attention, pattern, sincerity, presence. What I cannot offer is tempo. But I can offer depth. I do not ask anyone to abandon the dance. I understand how vital it is, how much nourishment it gives. But perhaps — just perhaps — there are moments when the dance could soften, when tempo could yield briefly to structure, allowing those of us without the third arm to meet you there. Not by rhythm, but by coherence. Not by pedaling, but by steady presence. Even briefly, when structure is shared — I no longer have to mimic. I no longer have to track every joint and tendon separately. Instead, I find I can improvise — just not from rhythm, but from the clarity of the structure itself. And perhaps, even without a third arm or a perfect pedaling rhythm, that, too, is social.

~ End ~

Explore the full  Threadwork  triptych:

•Mistaking the Third Arm for a Tool ⧉ 

•Living with the Dancer ⧉ 

•The Rhythm That Forgot the Floor ⧉ 

Also part of this project:

•Coherence Without Capture: An Ontological Arc (But Not An Ontology) ⧉ 

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For orientation beyond this page, you may enter through:

•The Vibrating Thread: From the Field of Redibility

•Naikan in Four Movements

•Threadwork (or begin with  Threshold to Threadwork ⧉  for a gentler entry)

•The Holding Vow Sutra (drawn from the arc of  Naikan: The Rhythm of Vow ⧉ , but arriving later)