Album Notes:
Instruments and arrangements by The Able Sea
Robert Fisher; drums
Robert Pierson; piano, organ, vocals
Alex Thompson; guitars, bass, piano, organ, drums on 1st Man on the Sun, vocals
with:
Brad Bell; percussion on Living on the Land
David Morrison; drums on White Blackmail, bass on Thoughts Undone
All songs by Robert Pierson and Alex Thompson
Recorded at The Spa, June 07 - May 08
Engineered by Robert Pierson
Final Mix and mixing by Brad Bell at Public HiFi, Austin, TX
Mastered by Nick Landis at Terra Nova, Austin, TX
Thanks to: Curtis Barker, Chris Hughes, and David Morrison for their help in the process.
Released October 23, 2008
theablesea.com
℗©2008 The Able Sea
Insert Text:
and i lose myself in the sea behind your eyes
moments still with desire
and flurried with life
deep i have gone there
i have lived in the shadows of
your darkest indiscretions
take me there
and then take me away
for another time
lone child in the yard
in your photo you hold out
and tell me that story now
and a cool breeze brushes the pages on the table. my antique heat bristles one last time. and the afternoon sun blazes down. and the songs play on. and the birds fly up, their song a faint reminder.
i check my watch. just about one day to go. out in the harbor the boat readies itself. everyone was able to fit on board to check it out. they think i'll travel just fine. no doubts. like a bird to water. joking like that. and before to long and after many goodbyes we were off. i turned the ship to a different ocean and wind was instantly at our back. the sky was somehow different. and he thought that if he had wings that would be a fine thing. like his friends he could scale the clouds and and ride the winds. he knew the song and it went like this he said and he sang a song to the night. and miles away dobbin could hear the song and it made him feel good. and they thought about the nights in the past--a blue haze--torpid and lost. until now, facing it.
east east is now west west stumbling forward with the best of them not thinking about the next and on he goes across the ocean. he travels full of silly rhyme scheme and doting on the obvious and lots of mistakes along the way, but i've layed with you. i've held you up, i've brought you mourning bread and layed out your nice suit for the affair. don't worry. keep your ears open. there. i may seem a little confused now and i've been better, but there are new branches. he muses, he sits straight and loses himself again.
there was no going in now. he held by that. he had hit on every branch, talked to all the visitors, stared like his father stared. moments drop around him a slow and even history to feed the forage to make the nest to fly the bird to land the sea and dirt the dreams. turn the tables and clean the clock.
we're so worn, but we have been here before. we recognize the light. the things we meant to say. the twitch at the small of the back, just on the left side.
through the leaves you can barely make out the sun. you could travel down the branches to the boat and deep into the deep. it was all there for him. enough to feed on for the rest of his life. this land to that. every conceivable place. the worn flag flying. on the horizon a tangled rush bush blooms in spite of the snarl. and he was no different. ghosts of summer and all. and he remembers not to forget his father as he had in the past. he always knew this would be the most difficult part and tries not to think about it. forges on ahead bravely.
the tree swayed in the storm as ocean sliced through the little boat and miles away dobbin flinched at the thought. he raced on--no matter. finally he came to a calm sea. he knew that this was the last stopping point. he could see the bridges in the future in the calamity. there's one he thought. the old song was growing fainter by the minute.
his skin was beginning to burn a dark blue, he knew this was coming. his eyes turning dark as well. it would all be over soon. pushing on through the years, dates flying by, faces of those we had disappointed smiling back at us not caring for the bother it caused. this is all the last step. the frayed end, the mended board, the knotted cloth, the highest cliff, the deepest ocean. gaining a foothold. having a lasting effect on the whole thing. so rambling as it is. hay seeding and all. but even so, he sings a lament for the benefit of everyone who cared to listen.-- it was a moving ballad that told the story of the balloon man in the park when dobbin and his mother would go to visit and how one day the man wasn’t there and this concerned dobbin because it was clear that it concerned his mother as well as a group of people that had gathered to honor the man and about how they sang their voices dry. it was a nice song and it passed the time.
he was nearing the deepest part of the journey the end was in sight. he was ready. he softly hummed his tune and bit at the wind, chomping at the thick of it. there is no lack of it. everything was still on the mark. it was close to four hours now. crooked and all. the hours passed by in seconds and he was there.
when he left he fell through all the waves, spun through the greased, stained flaws of yesterday and out into the otherside not know a word and so on. fawn legs and peach fuzz. crooked but still looking the way that it was supposed to. the one somewhat normal occurrence, the first thought of such a thing. the sun was on his face a different way now, still warm. this is what he wanted to recall when he could.
finally he washed up on another shore. he made a little bed with some leaves and set to sleep off the journey. marching into the dark he went with dreams full of the magic he had lived, of his friends waiting in the heat and of dark, clothes and matted hair, of dreams within dreams within lost moments and first tries. the frayed edge of life.
in his dream he sat in a marvelous castle ground on an enormous pavilion with violin music coming from all over. this was the place in his dreams: the gutter of leaves, an early morning guest, and the lucky look. setting it down softly on the table, then on the ground, then on a rock. the birds flew overhead silently. he was waiting for someone. he didn't seem to care who. he was content to enjoy the morning light, pausing for nothing and being fine with that. he would not forage for seeds on the ground. he had what he needed. just the one cracked and ready. in the distance he can hear the cars go by--safely away. it had all ground down to a halt and he wasn't fearing for what came next. this is why this tree covered patio in his dreams came about. it was there to soothe him and it did.
this is when he woke to the sound of the surf. he lay on his back fronds above, eyes closed listening to the surf, the repetition. in his pocket his own drawings of the patio and the light and of the moments passed by. he could draw the scene over and over every time a detail would ring as slightly different and strange. this is how he brought it all back and how he intended to spend the rest of his hours. and he knew when each of the drawings was done there was never any question. even with the constant reminder at his heals he kept on. miles away dobbin proud and wondering how he was. and as he whispered the end of my story to me he paused to kiss my neck tenderly. put his hand on my shoulder and they were gone. and all that remained were these pages of the time. 6 august 2006
