Notes On The Spectrum digs into this chapter: The Third Thing
Alone time with god.
Looking back, it was the third thing that was either on or missing. First two things: attraction and affection. The third thing, the magical thing, the one simple detail, a hair out of place, a photo from a lost time, before we’d met, as she was learning about physical love in contrast to her 17 years of frigid marriage.
It wasn’t one thing. It’s usually a multiple of little connections, little highlights, nano-joys. “What else you got?”
Once the moment, the heat, the sexually honeymoon of discovery is over, it’s the magic that will hold a relationship together. The magic and the effort. Love is not a feeling, it’s an effort, a turning towards, a continuous discovery of tiny things you know or are learning about your partner. If there’s no third thing… No passion outside of work, entertainment, and love making, it’s going to be an issue.
I asked her, “What are you going to do next summer when you retire?”
She responded defensively. “It feels like an attack. A judgment.”
Those features were part of her defense. So she stayed absorbed in television and book club bestsellers. I loved her. She loved me. She showed me how it felt to be securely attached for the first time in my adult life. And it wasn’t enough. The void beyond the light of our relationship was a pressure to her, a curiosity to me.
Books, conversations, additional fights, and I dropped the thread. It worried me. I stayed in my own lane and focused on my life, my issues, my own ascension. I could not lift her, put her passion into something new. We can’t really direct or redirect our partners. We can ask. We have to be razor clear on what we want, what we need, and what is not acceptable.
Sarcasm is one of those things that’s incidious. Not acceptable. “Can we drop the sarcasm?” “I was just joking.” “Yeah, but it is not funny. It’s a criticism hidden in a pointed statement.”
Another funny one that took me a bit longer to quash, she liked to correct the lyrics I was singing along to songs in the car. “Stop doing that. It’s not fun. Misses the joy I’m having singing along. I don’t care if I’m making up new lyrics every time. Your correcting me is fun for you. It’s not fun for me. Please quit doing it.”
Of course, I was the sensitive one. The modifications were not difficult. It was the void she didn’t want to talk about, dream about, or plan for. One idea she voiced during our first year, “Maybe open a bookstore and coffee shop in some small California town on the coast.”
Oh? It would’ve been cute, but it was not original. It was a meme. A tiktok or insta meme. The white ladies who do pilates, worry about the future, and dream of opening a bookstore in a beach town. For me, it would’ve probably been a ski town in New Mexico or Colorado. For her, it was a glimmer of an idea. A poem of what her life could be.
She wrote these poems in her mind. About how great we were going to be. How I rescued her. How she was going to work for one more year.
The third thing was missing.
I have too many third things, outside interests, projects, ambitions. I think I’m revisualising my hopeful success to be in line with my current and present life. I will be working. Until something blows up in my creative life, I will be working. It creates the pressure I need to push against. Push with more writing, more songs, more moments alone on the beach or in the mountains above Santa Fe.
I am pushing now. Pushing the stars rather than the river. Star one is this, here, book. Star two is music and immersive joy. Star three would be a woman, a muse, a spiritual copilot. I have recently decided to be joyful in my aloneness. To stop questing and galevanting for a date or a partner. Relax. The next woman will be looking for me. I’ll just be here, polishing my third things, listening for yours.
A woman at work recently lit up my “yes” synapses again. She has two young kids. A wrinkle I know well, could lean into, in the right situation. Her eyes sparked a crush in my loins. She’s delightful. Funny. Engaging. And… wait for it, recently divorced. Ugh. That’s a non-starter. No one going into divorce needs to be dating, they need to be healing. Recovering. Focusing on the kids. Losing the anger at the ex. Moving on.
And I think I could be that release for her. Ha! Let’s get over that idea real quick.
I need to be the release for me. Find the path up the seven-story mountain. Push. Publish. Submit packages to agents and movie producers. One hit. That’s all it would take. My powder is dry, my ammo is being replenished daily (like this) and I’m in the mood.
Sublemation. I stopped talking as much. Write. Write it down. Stop talking about it. Just tippity tap on the keyboard, push play, and reswizzle with my AI critics and idea partners. The young women are plentiful. I don’t need to go questing to rescue a damsel in distress. And… the bigger awareness, she doesn’t need me helping. It’s a solo journey. Refinding your way forward. Learning what is important in your life and what can be jettisoned.
Girls are jetisoned for me. Music production is also grounded. Focus is my only leverage on the crap job, crap schedule, and sore feet. Up and out is up to me. Up to me alone.
The void doesn’t scare me. I thrive in the void of quiet, dark, reflective contemplation. Move, grow, build, show joy. She must be balanced and chaotically sexy. The chemistry will do it’s magic when the timing is right. I long for it. I won’t bargain or negotiate. Show up 100% or be gone.
Quiet morning, for now.
note: image created with AI
For readers new to hyperfiction: see this explainer video: Blueprint Of Icarus Ascending
