I recorded this eight nights ago upon returning home from a Cleveland Orchestra concert at Blossom Music Festival. The thought had occurred to me during the evening's country drive, and this was not the first time I had considered making some sort of video or had even briefly attempted. On this occasion I was simply lucky. Being out and about is generally good for my spirits, a drive into the country usually especially satisfying, and good music too along with these things contributes to a sufficient degree of confidence to last a short while upon returning home. I was also fortunate in the lighting, I think, which was more by chance than by design—I am not, after all, a cinematographer. I've shared this in a few other online platforms, and so I share it here as well.
Kings and poets afford us grand or eloquent reflections upon matters that are nevertheless true enough of even the smallest or least gifted of us. Ozymandias may exceed most of us in having for a greater age at least a pedestal and a few words remaining on the lone and level sands (or a poem about it anyway), but the king goes where every one of us is going, and even his mighty pedestal and shattered visage are not immune to this fate. What do ordinary men think of their mighty works, and what do they think of the historical or divine might they reckon themselves to belong to? Even in this, in vain ideologies or false histories, many haven't even the nobility of an ancient king's dead heritage. It is not merely that every one of us is weak or that every individual life is ephemeral. Many odious and petty pharaohs understand and accept that much. No, on top of this it is something the tyrant denies or fails to understand (for the sake of the charge against such offenders I am, I admit, inclined to say it is denial, vengeful and impotent tyrant that I myself am): the might and truth one claims of the past are often just as illusory as both one's present and one's claims to the future. Many beliefs emerge from little better than death or oblivion, and to death or oblivion such beliefs return. The best they can hope for, and indeed in this they are often an admirable success, is to bring a bit of useless misery with their mighty works before they are swept away in the sands.
Shortly I am off to another concert at Blossom, and I am reminded also of a certain poem by Petrarch, my own forlorn bark adrift in this tempest. (Someone brought the poem to my attention on, of all places, Twitter.) The seat beside me shall be empty. I sometimes fill it with a client or an acquaintance, but one way or another I attend my beloved concerts alone. If I were not a subscriber to the Orchestra, I would scarcely have motive these days to draw myself out for such noble entertainment. I am reminded also that I have yet to make my last payment for my seats at the upcoming season, a task I have procrastinated for sheer sorrow but ought to get on right away. I have few joys, and, even if the sad harp sounds notes of pain, those concerts are among them.
I said that I had thought of making other videos, and indeed at the time that I began Lasseter's Lost Reef I had in mind artfully photographing something of the wreckage of my home while it was still freshly ruined from the fire. I even shot a few things, but I found the task too daunting. So, for now, what you see of Lasseter's Lost Reef is the only evidence you get of the colossal wreck. The house is repaired, but the wreckage never really was what happened in the fire anyway. The fire was merely a diversion or perhaps a figure representing the sorrow that fell before. I'm sure that scarcely another soul thinks much of either the figure or what it represents, although I think of the latter daily. It is, after all, my life, and, unlike the ancient king, I am still here.