This is how I would shoot it.

INT: LAKEROOM

FADE IN:

An ancient Chinese bi-fold privacy screen adorned with dainty abalone inlayed birds flying about in a bamboo forest. Each bird posed, frozen in time, in flight.

PULL FOCUS (CENT: BIRD)
ZOOM OUT

Revealing an oversized clunky thrift store recliner. A bit broken and stained, well worn, it is semi-reclined as if it doesn't fully close anymore. The arms covered in ashes, cat hair and a long gray human hair or two wafting in the breeze coming through the open door.

On the floor, a yellow legal pad with doodles and words at odd angles in the margins, a paragraph of handwritten text. A title crossed out and rewritten. A date scribbled in the top corner. A brown pencil with a school eraser lays across the page.

TILT UP: SLOW ZOOM

The view expands through the sliding glass doors, down the hill, across the mirror of the lake to the mountain tops covered in snow miles away.

REFOCUS: OUT TO IN

There is a cup of hot coffee on the computer server that serves as the table between the chairs. This one, the one by the door is where the songwriter sits, a guitar upside down across his legs. Leaning on it like a desk, he's writing on a scrap of paper. He stops mid-sentence, closes his eyes and tilts his head back and to the right. There is a white guitar pick between his teeth.

The sounds coming through the open door are lake sounds: water, birds, ducks, the occasional passing jetski or boat, kids laughing, playing in the distance.  Seen through the door a huge gray heron, four foot tall, lands by the gazebo and hunts for voles.

FADE OUT

FADE IN

It is night, city lights reflect on the lake, a candle reflects in the window, a glass of dark red wine next to a hot cup of coffee, an unfiltered cigarette burns in the ashtray. The line of smoke braided straight up, dissolving and hanging in the air above.

A guitar leaning over one arm of the chair, a tuning fork now on the yellow pad and another paragraph is shown.

PUSH FOCUS: CENT: PARAGRAPH

BLUR (before you can read it)

Fade Out

Anyway, that's the way I remember it. What a space that was and such a poetic title: The Lake Room in the Magic House. All the words I felt sitting there, all the songs I wrote and played there, all the folks who visited me there and sat and listened or played and sang along; in my head in a way they are still there living on in their own dimensions. The sounds still hanging in the air in there.

They changed it, the new owner, painting over the memories, tossing out the crusty recliner that was left behind. Of course it can never be the same, nor should it. New memories there for new people soon.

Going through boxes from the move I came across one today that said on it "Lake Room Lyrics." I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat the box down by my desk. Inside were snippets of songs, unfinished thoughts, oddly coded chord changes, set lists from shows, mix notes from recording sessions, and the pile of show badges, convention tags and wristbands from old shows and the odd gig.

I sat there for what must have been two hours reading through them. It is a time capsule of my years sitting there, in that chair, in front of those windows, looking at that view with odd scraps of paper capturing my moments. 26 years worth of moments. We made so much music there. We made so many memories there. So many lives were changed there in The Lake Room at the Magic House.

We're not leaving it behind, my friends, we're taking it with us. Thanks to all of you who passed over the threshold and felt the power, shared the magic. I hope you all have as fond a set of memories as I do.

The Lake Room in the Magic House where we laughed and cried and grew up and refused to grow up too much. Where we relished the beauty of the view and did our best to fill the air with music, laughter and the smell of good food cooking.

I think a lot about the backstage view of the party stage halfway down the hill. Lights and lasers, smoke and fireworks, some kids on stage cranking out their best hits to a barefoot and lake-soaked crowd. If I could go back again I wouldn't change a thing. I'd wish to relive it as it was, the good, the bad, the inevitable time to go. Moving on, growing again, and - though our paths diverge - you can trace us all back to our intersecting moments in the Lake Room at the Magic House.

"Hey Grampa, how come you guys aint rockin'?"