nine weaves of being
Manett is all woman. An \”Enneagram 4\” currently residing in Brooklyn by way of Guam. She writes, \”the organs sound kinda trippy dippy, I didn\’t mean for that but I like it. I didn\’t even write it with the organ riff, but when I got to my friend Mark\’s studio, he had this beautiful vintage keyboard, so I thought why not ?\”
Why not, indeed. I had to look up \’Enneagram 4\’ to get a handle on the spectrum. A typology variously referred to as the individualist; visionary; or slacker. If you are acquainted with the scribblings of Ouspensky and Gurdjieff you may be familiar with the Fourth Way.
A school I nominally enrolled in once in an esoteric hour, and subsequently flunked. I have no idea which part of the model my own personality infests.
Then or now.
Not so much a five dollar question as a nine point conundrum.
Nevertheless, I like Manett\’s \”Spider\” immensely.
Just this side of dark and gently foreboding, Grace Slick on Quaaludes or Hope Sandoval liberated from them, and my spine just beginning to adjust to the chiropractic magick of laying flat for the first time in years.
If all this sounds a little \”Blade Runner\”, let me assure you Manett is not to blame. Whether androids deliberate on electric sheep is of little consequence, save that I slept my first dreamless sleep these last few nights. Revelled in a little straight time.
The brief word Manett slipped me was a good deal more relaxed. Concise. And. Anyone who covers both T. Rex and the Voidoids in the blink of an eye is more than all right in my book.
I am a slave to tangents. Woven intricacies.