Ascend, continues to gain international recognition.  Recently an offer to place Ascend on the play list of a New Zealand radio station was given.  Negotiations are under way for distribution in Austraiia.

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HERE IS A POEM BY DOUG MARINCHIK:

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A Letter to Musicians  

 

Would that it could be, all of the time.  Stop now, quiet your mind and anticipate the sound.  Regard your instrument with respect and love.  Hold it in your hands, feel its weight, smell its scent, experience its being and texture; your familiar friend.  Fill your heart with the expectation of the first note, the last note, the only note.  Allow your heart to be surprised by this attack of sound, as if by the appearance of a long lost love.  Listen as it fills the air, stay with it as it dissolves until nothing is left but the air it occupied.  Feel your heart’s hunger for the sound to return.   

Now.

Play. 

Not with your mind but return your hands, your ears, your creative voice to the divine from whom they are on loan. There is a song to sing, and it is worth hearing.  It is good to allow your spirit to fill up with  joy, love, and light, a willing vessel.  Watch and listen, be a mind-full witness to this miracle.  And when the song is finished linger for a moment, breathing in the air that was blessed by this heavenly thing called music.  

  

Roger Hatfield Aug 7, 2009

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TODAY AT THE MUSEUM

    I have to hurry.  I don’t want to lose this amazing feeling without expressing it.  I was going to write about my trip to the Toledo Museum of Art today, which incidentally, was wonderful.   I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the museum’s exhibits.  Ah, the enterprises of Man.  We saw jewelry that was created as long before Jesus was born as it is after.  That is to say, 2300 BC.  It was gorgeous! 

    We took a little break in the cafeteria then we headed out to the sculpture gardens and subsequently across the street to the Glass Museum.  After viewing some beautiful glass art creations, we and sat down in the area where a glassblowing exhibit was occurring.  That is not really fair, there was serious glass blowing occurring by a team of five artists, and we were watching.  They were not doing it for our benefit.  It was an incredible dance; turning, cutting, into the kiln, out of the kiln, cutting and torching, three torches at a time.  I have seen this on TV.  But I never felt the heat, smelled the smells, and seen the intensity of the people in this spontaneous improvisation.  Into the kiln, out of the kiln, torches blazing, cutting and shaping.  Very few instructions were given; it was a collective consciousness, or (unconsciousness), that simply knew what to do.  I  remembered the feeling from, at times, having been engaged in a musical improvisation with other musicians.  I can remember being surprised by the eruption of applause from the audience when the  trance was broke and the song ended.

Now from across the workspace came a young woman with a glass bowl rotating slowly on the end of her long blowing rod. “Ready?”  “Ready, Now!”  The bowl was joined to the double-stemmed object of their torches and their attention. Turning, heating, back into the kiln and out again.  Again she returns, this time with a smaller glob of ruby red glass that is applied to the top of the rotating bowl, some sort of rudimentary lip I thought.  What looked like a large compass tool was brought into play and the opening of the now attached bowl was spread open.  Back into the kiln; spin, spin, spin.  One of the glass tentacles began to twist, just slightly.  The entire piece elongated, now looking to be at least four feet tall.   Cindy and I sat there with our mouths agape.  I said it was like a dance; maybe there is a better analogy.  It was like a jazz quintet launched on a high-energy quest, all instruments improvising spontaneously, free but connected.  Weather Report in glass.  Another snip, all three torches burning now, engulfing the piece in flame as it went back to the white-hot kiln. The kiln so hot that the doors were opened by long metal rods with hooks on the end.  Open the doors and bring up the shield as the piece is slid into the glowing opening, still being rotated, the flames firing from the opening of that benevolent hell.

CRACK! 

NO! 

Quickly! Pull it out, torch it, bring it back to the rotating stand, keep it hot.  Stretch it.  Too late.  It is gone.  The dream is dead.  Leonard, the leader of this jam session walked away as the others, one by one,  extinguished their torches.  “Shut the doors,” says Leonard.  He walked in our direction.  Cindy and I looked at each other then back at Leonard.  The pain on his face was astonishing.  I saw it, I felt it, and tears came to my eyes.  Brows were mopped and shoulders were shrugged. Disappointment was everywhere, but it was obvious that they had all been here before.  Leonard reappeared.  They stood in a little group and dissected what had just happened.  Zen acceptance.  It is how they get better.  It speaks to the impermanence of all things. Today I saw the pain of dying dreams and the sweetness that is earned only by failing so many times.  No time to mourn, all we have, and all we will ever have, is now.

If there is a morale, it is this: Keep creating, keep playing, keep dancing, keep doing what ever art you do, even, and especially, when the glass breaks.

Roger

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C S Lewis Quote:  Hell is locked from the inside.

New favorite:

 “The bad news is: there is no key to the universe.  

The good news is:  the universe is not locked.” 

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HEY!  DO YOU HAVE NEW MUSIC?  I'D LOVE TO HEAR IT!