Despite the fact that he and I are still each sifting, picking up pieces of ourselves and putting them back together, I have decided that if (?) I am going to be writing about him regularly, I should give him a pseudonym. “My Dom,” “my lover” and “my boyfriend” are all inadequate; I don’t call him “Master”; and until he tells me what he wants be called, it seems easier to name him than to rely on pronouns.

Speaking of pronouns, I would like to interrupt myself to add that I hate the D/s naming conventions. It is silly to write things like “Hi A/all! W/we hope Y/you are coming to O/our party tonight–remember, it is B Y/y O/o B!! :D”

But the thing is . . . I have started to think of my lover as Him. And in a different way than my other obsessions, crushes, or boyfriends have been “him”. I am not changing his capitalization–that would require too much effort. But he can at least have a name.

* * *

I am not at all sure he will like it–he doesn’t like diminutives. (What Dom does?!) He likes full, proper names. Robert is one of my favorite names for many reasons, so that’s partly why Robbie is good, despite the nickname. There are so many good Roberts: Kennedy, De Niro, Browning, Redford. According to Wikipedia I should include Robert Downey Jr., whose name has always seemed to me a single word, and Bob Dylan, who, indeed, also seems to me to have a single word (dylan) for a name.

Geez, the more I write, the more I like the name Robert.

It’s a family name in my family, which I don’t think gives much about my identity away; according to the Social Security Administration, Robert was the 17th most popular name in the United States in 1992. (I picked this statistic because it was the easiest one to find, by the way. I hate statistics. The other day I was driving along and I heard a comedian say, “The number of women whose boyfriends hate peanut butter, according to a statistic I made up for the purpose of this joke . . .” Fexactly.)

And it’s Robbie Robbertson’s name, kind of.

For anyone who doesn’t know, Robbie Robertson was in The Band. (“The Weight, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Up on Cripple Creeck” . . . y’know?)

Here is Robbie in 1976 at the Band’s final concert, which Martin Scorsese made into the move The Last Waltz.

RobbieLastWaltzPinkScarf

My lover does not look this girlish, although I admit I have never seen a picture of him from the 70s and I have certainly never seen a picture of him in a blue velvet almost-but-not-quite-smoking-jacket and pink silky scarf.

On the other hand, my lover very definitely does like Joni Mitchell and Neil young, who were also at the Last Waltz:

Joni and Neil

But when it comes to liking Joni and Neil–who doesn’t?

So that doesn’t make my lover all that connected to Robbie.

There are one or two other things that conceivably do. But mostly, lately, what I have been thinking of is Robertson’s song “Broken Arrow”, off his first solo CD, entitled Robbie Robertson. (Hey, it’s the easiest way to solve the naming thing, yeah?)

I know that song was ruined, ruined I tell you, by Rod Stewart. (Okay, actually, I secretly liked Rod Stewart’s version well enough, and the over-the-top gooshy romantic late-80s-early-90s video that went with it.)

But I love the song itself, melody and lyrics like a gust of wind:

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around

Do you feel what I feel
Can we make it so that’s part of the deal
I gotta hold you in these arms of steel
Lay your heart on the line . . . this time

I wanna breathe when you breathe
When you whisper like that hot summer breeze
Count the beads of sweat that cover me
Didn’t you show me a sign, this time

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around, around

Do you feel what I feel
Do you feel what I feel
Ah can you see what I see
Can you cut behind the mystery
I will meet you by the witness tree
Leave the whole world behind

I want to come when you call
I’ll get to you if I have to crawl
They can’t hold me with these iron walls
We got mountains to climb

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around

There’s something mysterious about the song. In some ways, it seems like it should be a duet–it would make more sense as a love song if a woman sang the second two lines of the refrain, at least (and perhaps a couple of the stanzas.  I particularly think the stanzas about the beads of sweat, coming, and crawling would suit me just fine.)

Sexual innuendo aside, I like the song because of its mysticism. There is in the summit of the heart and in the most intense of experiences something that connects us, some passion and some bond. It’s there, and lots of us feel it, but it’s so hard to get our hands on, so hard to connect about it, so hard to talk about. “Do you feel what I feel?” “Do you see what I see?” I look at my lover much of the time, and the longer we know each other, the more I see what he sees, because I have gotten used to seeing the world through his eyes. I feel what he feels, because I feel for him.

* * *

When we were talking about found things this week, we were also talking about arrowheads . . . my lover said he’d never found one. He is the kind of man who would give me the first arrowhead he’d ever found.

He wouldn’t just do it for me, he’d do it for anyone he really loves. That’s part of the deal for him. He is not perfect–nobody is–but those he loves he love completely, with all of who he is. That’s a lot to offer another person.