Music from STUDIO 5 to you... - From Roger Hatfield, award winning producer, writer and musician

A voyage of spiritual awakening, emergence, transcendence and resurrection. These pieces of music flow seamlessly into one another. At the brief moments of convergence you will experience a period of weightlessness, a sort of benign vertigo. You are invited to take the ride.

Late afternoon standing on the wooden platform at the old train station where I have stood many times before. Shadows lengthen as the dust specks float motionlessly in beams of sunlight. The tracks stretch into the distance, two lines eventually converging into a glinting metaphor for infinity.

These tracks go west, these tracks go east, these tracks go north and south. I have ridden these tracks and they have taken me here and there. Today will be different. Today I will rise and leave the station below, my new destination is one where I wait patiently for my own return.


Mostly for Artists:

Here I am again, on the verge of release of a new CD.

The usual questions surface.  Why do we do this?  My answer is usually, “Because we have to, its just the way we are wired. It is for the pure love of the craft.”

 I  continue to go wherever the creative path leads, I believed all of my life that if you do something well enough, that is what matters. On the eve of my sixty eigth birthday, I have my doubts. We press on.

I am sharing with you creative types who find yourself in that ugly neighborhood at the corner of Art and Commerce.  The business has changed so much, I hardly recognize it. I still have the core belief: if we work hard enough, and create something that we ourselves love, then somehow the universe will find a way to support us.  If not, at least we got to enjoy the process and make some friends on the way. Thanks for listening.


We are not alike, we are the same.


it was truly a beautiful morning.  I was accompanied by butterflies of several types and a squadron of dragonflies guided my way across the field to the pond where the turtles waved as they slipped from their sunny logs into the water.   I am on a first name basis with several of these shelled friends, having helped them from time to time to cross the busy road that runs along side the pond.

A monarch  butterfly fluttered close to me,  landing on my outstretched walking stick.  The butterfly required nothing from me, nor I from it.  I thought about capturing it but instead recognized our connection. We experienced each other as part of the same reality. The memory and the connection remain with the understanding that  love does not requires  possession.



My Love for you is
moving forward
behind the sunshine
after the rain

My Love for you is
speaking softly
stirring my coffee
center stage

My Love for you is
looking back at me






    I have to hurry.  I don’t want to lose this feeling without recording 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 now is after.  That is to say, 2300 BC.  Gorgeous!

    We took a little break in the cafeteria before we headed out to the sculpture gardens and subsequently across the street to the Glass Museum.  After viewing some beautiful glass art creations, we 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 that simply knew what to do.  I remembered the feeling from being 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 the 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  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.   Bring up the shield as the piece is slid into the glowing opening, still being rotated, while the flames licked from the opening of that benevolent hell.



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 re-hashed what had just taken place.  Zen-like 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.



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

New favorite quote:  “The bad news is this: there is no key to the universe.  
The good news is:  the universe is not locked.” 


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