Album contains a poem on the verso: "Fathers, Sons and Holy Ghosts," by Chip Stern. The dream beckons. Feeling yourself waking you try to pull deeper. Deeper, through cross-currents of desire and aspiration, undigested experiences and obscure fears. Approaching forgotten doorways, you linger. Some days it's like that... You've been here before but most always surface, bobbing around in the off-white clarity of the morning, with only the streaming defractions of light and your own hesitant focus to remind you where you've been. You're on your own again--the trail remains umarked. Rub the grit from your eyes, sigh, and let the fading memories soak through. Suddenly, you're very old and, somehow, nostalgic for what has never been. Oh God, how shall this day be different from all the others? Fathers used to teach their sons about time and the meaning of dreams. The seasonal cycles, like life and death, day and night, inflicted their purpose in daily measure--to what end? You shrugged off the pain and confusion as your elders had--preocuppied in the ritual exertions of hard labor--savored the moments of peace and perservered with dignity. Somewhere, beyond survival, even beyond time, lurked spirit. A special breed of man and woman realized that spirit resided within. The lessons of these Holy Ghosts have been passed on through the generations, their power remaining only so long as we choose to remember, interpret and act. In creativity we maintain a continuity between the past and present, giving the future meaning for our children.