CHAINS OF DEVOTIONMozart and JaisiniBrigitte ArletteAugust 10, 2014

As I watch over youparading once again an actmeant to inflate each of your wordsi am left with no choice.but to let the false praisesfly gently in the summer breeze

With the sting of the voodoo needleI burst open the sorry balloons.

From the wrecks in the aira healing storm of musical notesreleases, in my heart , Mozartand Jaisinifrom the chains of passionand devotion..and so I know that our songshall be sung for alland it will be heard by all.

Copyrighted Rahman,Brigitte Arlette-2000

Paul Jaisini - CHAINS OF DEVOTIONCHAINS OF DEVOTION - Mozart and Jaisini

on jaisini.silvrback.com  

gleitzeitjaisini:

A quest into Paul Jaisini‘s and Mozart’s legacy.Both Mozart and Jaisini were born a child prodigy. Mozart was thrown in an unmarked grave, his soul wanders into Eternity. Jaisini destroyed his paintings, his soul is restless in his living body reincarnation of Mozart. The Drums is to me a major factor in understanding the eternal value of Mozart’s Jaisini Art. Jaisini sings the invisible song.

The hands of the day are nailed on my doorThe full moon impaled on the fairy stickthe magic potion I stirredwith the spoon of devotionin a chalice of sins

The panther of the night jumps through the sunretracing one last line of life

A clenched fist over a satin handcaptures the last…

I am up at 5am, and I still like what I read.

12/15/99 Are you still interested in my comments? For this type of analysis, I use my emotional intelligence. I already have the lines of my answer to send to you within 48 hours. 

12/15/99 I am up at 5am, and I still like what I read. Wait until I contact you from my fortress. Who trespass looses the illusion of reality. Let me read at my leisure.

Subj.: Re: Drunken Santa (oil painting by Jaisini) 12/15/99It’s 4.25 am in the morning I’ll be working through the night. I am French, but my company is in the Arabian Gulf. Internet connects through a Proxy [the Great Censor]. I write besides being a human, an islander/or highlander. I hate…

As for writing, I do my own autodafe.In the Museum, the curator of the museum shed tears over the vanished marble lady. Do you feel like someone who peeps? Are you afraid to get caught up

into your own mind games? Is that all you wanted? I am kind, because I am in pain with a deep wound. I do not even know how it came, whether it will ever heal. The only true intellectual game, the only book I read is The Glass Bead Game Master -Herman Hesse. As for writing, I do my own autodafe. I am only an illusion.

They can only be voyeurs.

The others drank at oasis, which keeps disappearing. They can only be voyeurs. For Pavlov, the chains are not necessary. Once when the marble lady went away on warring mission, he cried for her a slave accepting his fate – the basis of our society, the enslavement of the body to achieve bondage of mind and souls. I have closed my eyes not understanding the heartbeats, words seems so out of context. 

Subj: Re: Sinphony You have some character. You are unpredictable, but I do like you. I have broken down the concepts of nationality, religion, wealth, education. I said I was un-learning. You are in one of your cruel moods. It does not matter to know exactly who you are. I like you that is…You have some character.

EYKG writes to BAR

I wish I could relieve you from your emotional problems but I am not a psychologist perhaps an amateur. It seems that you are experiencing financial difficulties as my theory is that all emotional problems are explained by the lack of money. If you were wealthier you could buy yourself any male toy you need as often as you need. At the same time you have potential for greatness, which may be unrealized due to laziness and life by the rule of habit. Yustas

Love is one, life is one6/15/00 Love is one, life is one, and death is one. You dilute (repeat) any of those, and you are lost in a meaningless circle. You cannot love twice, live twice you cannot die twice. The true artist knows that he surrenders his mortal life to eternity when he tumbles on a truth.

Is your style good?Subj:    Re: Sinphony 6/16/00 Is your style good? I would like to know it from the master himself. Or are we talking about Jaisini’s style. Please tell Jaisini, that I think if he continues like that, he will live long and happily but the essence shall remain elusive.

The artist is no God6/15/00 The artist is no God to claim for a form of eternity he can have. You are an old soul.

11/4/00 I am not interested to read comments I made last year. The probability that Nancy is seen as being me is very high, it may sound preposterous to you, but her name should actually be Anataali. I am a bit tired, they are still fighting over my poem. Your site is very good,and after all I…Nancy from the Interview – B The probability that Nancy is seen as being me is very high

Subj: Re: You are contacted because your comments were 11/3/00

I went through your site for the best parts, which are your essays and the interview. And it is great. Believe it or not, the censor of the American Freedom of Expression has cut my poem out on a poetry forum. Perhaps I should marry…why you chose to use children’s writings

The soul cannot be human, it is beyond of what we try to catch. I love you because you are telling words of a passionate man “what I am worth”? Does it matter?

You reply only to those you think will put a value to your worth. I talk to the ones who challenge my heart and intellect. What a…

Are you afraid to get caught up into your own mind games?

The hands of the day are nailed on my doorThe full moon impaled on the fairy stickthe magic potion I stirredwith the spoon of devotionin a chalice of sinsThe panther of the night jumps through the sunretracing one last line of lifeA clenched fist over a satin handcaptures the last…

counting Paul Jaisini’s souls

Your eyes fill the void

Your eyes fill the voidOf my heartWith burning embersYour eyes empty the shameOf my soul

With dew tearsYour eyes are mineTo eternity.

I hope you feel challenged. There is no safe ground in my world. From the top of the mountain, I will take you to the abyss or the roller coaster. We shall do adult things on the Internet, but not the kind I booby-trapped you with. Something meaningful and meaningless at the same…Show me the blue to know can we fuse

False attachmentsJaisini, what outline of me, you the prophet didn’t see?Cutting to pieces the boundaries of all your propheciesReplacing the perfection within illusionDreaming me with the false attachments I dare not to name Your other M. Ladies you polished well, so masterful While…False attachments

Why are we always forced to see things through man’s eyes? Civilization [Greek/marble sculptures] freed the mind from duality. While opportunities become increasingly difficult for the men to vent natural desires, it is getting easier on women. The foundation of the social contract – the…

Rape is a social convention, freedom to love and choose is the sin.

FORGIVE ME FOR NOT ASKING

FORGIVE ME FOR NOT ASKINGLast night,I slept in your heartForgive me for not asking..It was very coldOut thereEveryone was rulingOver icy landsI had lost my wayAnd I had frostOver my eyes too…I had nowhereTo goSo,Last nightI slept in your heartForgive me for not asking…

Above we find Brigitte’s website circa 1999. On the page she included a story she wrote about her encounters with both EYKG and PJ. It is a fictional story. The story is meant to validate Brigitte’s poetic talents.

Paul Jaisini, to you my perfect impossible loveyou trick me, your love making painted in redsof my pained pleasureI see the invisible portrait the love-making stopped when you wantedto paint the invisibleteasing me, asking for tears, for screaming, for reds, but there’s blues, and…my next invisible name

to Paul Jaisini – Invisible Paintings Here we are together again on the path of broken trustthe left side of your death and the right side of my dreamMozart,why do you place the violin in my handswhy do you stand over my life and teach me music?Is it the gift of your Impossible Love…

to Paul Jaisini – Invisible Paintings

Jaisini futurism? Tell me

And I am sure he would put stick in my wheels if I went around looking for photographers in his fiefdom.

For now, I am the invisible Brigitte, until I cool down or he cools down, whichever comes first. It is hard to swallow nullity, I can’t swallow his. I still do not know what art is Jaisini futurism? Tell me.

Yes I will be You to feel Your heartThe language of Your heartBecause I want to talk to youI do not sit in from of a screenAnd say Ah and Oh, sad sad sadLet me spend 10 USD so I feel betterAbout my little me in the comfy armchair…Can I be You?Yes I will be You because I want to feel…I will be You

I owe you an apologyfor the words that I did not say or writeI owe you my lifefor every cut in my feet when we landedon the cold rocky seashore of your dream island

I owe you my lies for taking me out into the darkness to show methe shadows of your unkempt promises

I owe you your tearsnow it is time for you to give my handto the highest bidder

I owe you the world because it is going to stop spinning for youand our bond of love shall tie your days and nightswith chains of memories that will cut you rawwith every tiny movement you dare or hope to takelive long prisoner of my heart. I owe you your tearsnow it is time for you to give my hand

poem brigitte

It is 6.15 and I did not go to sleep yetIt is 6.15 and I did not go to sleep yet, so did the marble lady before she became a doll. The colors are wrong, and I feel nothing for the purple noses of the Santas and Arabs of the ephemeras. I despise them for believing they are more alive than the most. One is drunk on the blood of the First Marble Lady, the Immaculate Conception.

People are robotic so what? Still they are made of flesh and blood you can re-awaken, perhaps before the soul. I already love you, whether you accept it or not. I am

not playing games being strong. If you want to tell me no, I’ll take your nos as they come. Jaisini is not alone, he is a…

a series of beginnings and ends.

all-night polishingAfter all-night polishing by a man, she does not care that will replace him time after time, same form of polishing, she retains her integrity of not being drawn into a choice after all. 

As to the marble lady, there must be a drilling of her fleshPavlov can be a distraction, but the ultimate distraction is the huge metallic key with huge teeth. As to the marble lady, there must be a drilling of her flesh, her mind and no soul, as she has none being just a doll. There is no comfort on the top of the cliff sleeping with the wolves. I am my own beginnings and my own ends. I haunt your castle, not in Scotland but in Ireland where you live. 

The poet is a torturer. Other tortures himThe poet is a torturer. Other tortures him, in turn he tortures his marble lady with words that are nothing but soap bubbles. But I am attracted by soap bubbles, because it reminds of a child in me. For a while the marble lady forgets that she is a doll and goes into the soapy bubble which lives the short life of a bubble becoming kinder, less ruthless. 

The Marble Lady was only a toyThe Marble Lady was only a toy for a while and she endured years of torture with the heartbeat none could truly stop. All life I heard the heartbeats and could never understand the tempo. The Marble Lady was nothing but a common doll, to look at, to play with, but never touch. The marble lady is snow white and the seven dwarfs, the seven little days, too narrow to live in. 

Unlike your Santa, or your artist in trance I remain fully awake, and never resort to any other means than my own

lakes of serenity. It was cruel to awake the marble lady, because besides the lusty polishing at night by the museum guard, she was OK. When she awakes, she finds that Pygmalion wants…

Unlike your Santa, or your artist in trance I remain fully awake

I wish for ice, for a frozen land. You have hurt me, because you drew me into a game and did not give the rules. I am not harsh, just want to be free from you, your words, their words, my words. I want to remember a time living in a secure place among wolves. I wish to be one of them, follow a…

as Pygmalion I never bond

Both Mozart and Jaisini

A quest into Paul Jaisini‘s and Mozart’s legacy.Both Mozart and Jaisini were born a child prodigy. Mozart was thrown in an unmarked grave, his soul wanders into Eternity. Jaisini destroyed his paintings, his soul is restless in his living body reincarnation of Mozart. The Drums is to me a major factor in understanding the eternal value of Mozart’s Jaisini Art. Jaisini sings the invisible song.

You are the prophet of my soulYou are the prophet of my soul,Exile, you thought, was perfect goal.But sending me away you locked the

Door of jail, the paintings of Undecided fate, to cut or let me go away,From you to you, exiled unforgotten,I know you suffered calling name, inAgony of our secrets but alone, theOthers count not.

Thou shall not Kill, Thou shall not lie.Why?La P(a)rise de Parole is indeed always something that breaks the Status-Quo. In every philosophy or scriptures, it is ordained : Paul Jaisini, you destroyed your masterpiece, Thou shall not Kill, Thou shall not lie. Why?

To EYKG You keep writing the words

I keep tearing the pagesyou live on units of timethat need constant transfusionthe news of my departurepaint a grimace of pain over your lifeI have walked far enough with youlet me retreat to my fortress in the night skyAnd I swim further away…To EYKG

False attachmentsJaisini, what outline of me, you the prophet didn’t see?Cutting to pieces the boundaries of all your propheciesReplacing the perfection within illusionDreaming me with the false attachments I dare not to name Your other M. Ladies you

polished well, so masterful While cutting me to shreds when blue and goldWept red and green.Destroyed inscription of the Islamic ProhibitionWhere Marble Lady stays untouchedThe unlikely victim left with black and whiteThe ashes of our wordsThe eyelash brush of destine once upon a nightIn rapture Marble statue moaned your name,My artist, my Jaisini, crush me tenderIn our sacred trinity we ruled by law of dialecticsWhere two is never three, three yet to reflectHow black and white weep red and blueBrigitte Arlette RahmanFalse attachments

Paul Jaisini-May-2002 The Artist: Dinner invitation with Anataalie oOo

I had heard of of Rahman Brigitte AKA Anataalie, a French woman living in Arabia, through the New York artist, Mr. Yustas K. Gottlieb, a talented writer who had published insightful reviews on my paintings.

He told me of how much she had enjoyed one my works called: Drunken Santa.

Yustas had confided in me and said of Anataalie:

"I highly regard her sensitivity in communicative arts. I am sure that she has to continue to work in the literary area and mature to some serious body of work. I had a chance to read her poems before and they contain human feelings without pretense and with temperament that I sympathize with personally. Adding to this, her star-like appearance creates real magical impact on her readers. I hope Jaisini that you will meet her too."

It so happened that last May 2001, I was to be in London and that Anataalie was in town. I was pretty depressed with life and art, and decided to give her a call and find out what it was that she found so remarkable in my art.

We agreed to meet for dinner the same day in San Lorenzo, her favorite Italian restaurant in West London, so she said on the phone.

I had arrived a little ahead at 9pm and sat at the table for two, I had reserved.

The prices on the menu looked pretty stiff, and I was not even sure I would be able to pay that kind of a bill.

As I was lost in the materialist thoughts of the exploited artist I had become, a woman entered. Heads turned, there was something very unusual in the way she walked or stood. I was shocked by the opulence of her outfit, she was wearing a long dark blue velvet off shoulder gown on which she had casually thrown a lilac pashmini scarf, and she wore dark blue gloves…

She actually dazzled: she had long shining auburn hair, vivid brown-emerald eyes, and she was adorned with diamonds that threw sparkle against sparkle from her ears to her neck, from her neck to her wrist and fingers, from her hands to her ankle. Yes that too :she was wearing an unusual diamond bracelet on her left ankle.

She was quite a sight, yet there was a deep softness about her: her walk was silent and her voice was gentle and low. It was she of course: Anataalie or Rahman, Brigitte arlette.

As she approached our table with a smile, I have to admit that I felt weak in the knees. But soon as she sat, my anxiety vanished, when she declared with a gentle laugh:

"Forgive me, artist, I need to drink an expresso and look at the bottom of the cup. Give me five minutes, will ya?"

She was like a little girl. I watched her, amazed and already seduced.

When she had played her little girl's trick, and had managed to put me at ease, we started to talk of life and art, of art and life. I soon discovered that she had in fact read very little, and was leading, back in Arabia. a very reclusive life whereas she did not even watch the television, or read newspapers. She just abhorred intellectualism, she was the movement and the moment, and she despised yesterday as much as she did tomorrow.

Nevertheless, I felt myself wanting desperately to please her, to show off to her and I talked of writers long dead, of painters whose graves I had visited. She sneered and threw me a ferocious look. I felt defeated. I asked her:

"Anataalie, it seems you do not like me."

She replied:

"Jaisini, why on earth should I like you or dislike you? You are the illusion and the magician, and I am the medium."

I was startled by her reply.

She planted her gaze in my eyes, motionless, and she practically hypnotized me. Her mind forced mine to return to the artist's workshop I had left behind. I saw , in that motionless thought, myself in New York in front of a canvass painting a woman, a beautiful woman: Anataalie.

I woke up from the waking dream and I said:

"Anataalie, you made me paint a mental tarot card of you. You are a model, aren't you? You once were in love with an artist who painted you, weren't you?

She did not reply but she was pleased.

We stayed in that little restaurant for another two hours eating at random: sometimes something salty, sometimes something sweet , and we mixed the cappuccinos with the Chianti. I was a happy man, all eyes were on our table, and she did not seem to care.

She had been acting all evening and she knew I understood.

She was an expert in reviving dying hopes.

Because that woman did give me a new reason to live, to paint: ……..The Tarot Card of Anataalie….

As it was time to leave, I asked for the bill. She understood the thoughts I had before her arrival in San Lorenzo Restaurant. She said with her typical gentle laughter:

"But there is no bill, Jaisini, they charge my account. You see this is my favorite place, I come here with the people who will have a meaning in my life.

Do you actually carry money with you? We are in the electronic age, you know. Money is dirty, leave it in the bank and let them put tabs on you. I do so always, I help create new job openings too."

This time, I laughed long and hard. She was an expert in putting people at ease.

As we left, I asked Anataalie:

"May I see you again, soon?"

Anataalie closed her eyes for a while and said:

"No, Jaisini, we shall never meet again"

I felt a deep pain, and yet a deep hope because I knew that I was going to paint the Tarot Card of Anataalie, and that magical card would bring her back to me.

I stood there as she boarded a taxi and got lost in the London Night. I shivered from a sudden sense of loss, of loneliness.

The next day, I flew back to New York, my friend Yustas was at the airport and asked me, with a little twinkle in his eyes:

"So, did you meet her? How did you find her? She is such a mysterious woman"

I was already jealous of Yustas and casually replied:

"Brigitte is my kind of woman, living fast and being adventurous, keeping herself attractive to a man. But of course I am a romantic."

Rahman, Brigitte arlette had set a new magical course in my life, "une oeuvre d'art a naitre" :

The tarot Card d'Anataalie par Paul Jaisini

My last masterpiece, the one that will bring her back to me.

Paul Jaisini. Surrealist Painter C/o Yustas K Gottlieb 

-- brigitte arlette rahman (brigitte@bigfoot.com), July 02, 2002

Brigitte writes regarding Wet Dream oil painting by Paul Jaisini: “I have been to museums… I have seen many painters at work and what you describe in your book is all too familiar to me. I want the plainness of the earth and the sophistication… To see Paul Jaisini’s art, Yustas, I will have to love you madly and hate you as much, because then I could pass this door that is in your mind and that you keep close. And when I will reach that door, you will push me inside to see how I react… To grow?? Natural?? Yustas, do not play games with me, because if you want this sophistication and let me see a glipse of what I can get from it, I will do the loving and the hating from an outsider point of view like you do yours… And I will feel your pain and enjoy it when I arouse you madly and bite into your neck so deep that i will drink your blood and then I will kneel between your legs and drink your sperm…”