Personal Video Revival
Since a very young age I have been an avid lover of film. Even before I started playing music I remember being so very moved by motion picture set to sound. The two mediums, when married in such a way, could produce an emotive response like none other that I’d ever experienced. That love has never diminished over the years as I’ve sought after a career in the music field, playing in a band, etc. When writing songs I’m always thinking of the visual stimuli that can accompany and it, in turn, moves me to write in a certain fashion. Some have said that it can be too metaphoric or “story-telling” but to me it has always been simply the way that I approach art.. from a visual standpoint.
I knew after film school back in 2001 that I wanted to find my niche in the film world, but my equally taunting desire to play music lead me down a different path. That time spent happened to excuse and rather envelope the latter 10 years of my life. I love it and I wouldn’t change a thing. However, I cannot forget or subdue my love for film and what it means to me. Therefor, as of recent I have been diving back into some minor film work, editing, etc. and am happy to have my first several videos be of a nature that I have become very excited and passionate about; silent films re-told.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SpGhaTxA0k
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=th97HMEdngA&feature=relmfu
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tGCGVBxeG4U&feature=relmfu
I’m always on the look out for new and exciting projects involving all things film making. Hit me up if ever you hear of someone with a desire to collaborate.
Cheers,
Michael Lawrence Shepard
Michaellawrenceshepard@gmail.com
Sunday Morning Drunk Driver Bastard Ass
When I was 12 years old my older sister finally got her driver’s permit and with it came a certain sense of freedom, not only for her but I also felt it too. Like an imminent wave of justice that had been due me my whole life… a way to get around, free of my parents’ loving, yet strict, religious gaze. However, on an early Sunday morn we were in standard tow, on our way to church, my sister in the driver’s seat, my mother in the passenger’s seat and me in back, securely buckled and dreaming of the adventures that lay in store for such a duo of siblings on the brink of new found discovery. The time was 9:30am. We were a tad late for our usual 9:15 rendezvous with my Father, him already having been there in the “sanctuary prayer room” since early that morning. A mere two blocks away and the light turned green. My sister, as trepidatious a driver as she was, eased forward through the light when out of nowhere a drunk driver running a red light slammed in to the side of us going 70 miles per hour. Our car was totalled. My sister had to take her permit test again, my mother had to go to the hospital and I had to get stitched in my head after breaking the car window with my skull. As for the drunk Sunday morning driver, I try to imagine what his night entailed to bring him to that fateful morning moment colliding with our own; a job lost, a life gone sour, a crackled faded love left, or maybe just a routine drunken happenstance. Regardless, I don’t know what happened to the poor bastard. God only knows what happens to a potentially heartbroken, drunk-ass son of a bitch who slams mindlessly into a station wagon full of preacher’s wife and kids. Either way… remembering scars can be beneficial for good web-writing fodder.
The Spider’s Milk
After the sentimental blast of a childhood Christmas we tried talking to the old closet door about all things Christendom and the paths to belief. My arm was tired but not yet asleep when the dreamers came for the pencil pushing miniature thieves that until now laid dormant under the bed. What strange tales they hollered from the distance. Something about my brother and his wiley ways evoked enough spiritual tension that the room began to speak. And once again I felt the warm glow of my old friend trapped inside the closet door surfacing to have a chat. We hadn’t seen each other in sometime so the aging was at first a shock to him. My hair greying now from the life lessons and emotional stresses of being through a thing or two, the eyes a little more cynical and jaded with that innocence tucked back a little farther than it used to be. Our pleasantries lasted for a moment or two and then the reality of our relationship came to fruition in the form of a sigh. The rain sheep were no longer in the goat’s den and the sunshine dancer went missing long ago. We talked briefly of his disappearance but I couldn’t bear it much longer. It was just too damn sad. Besides, my brother was starting to get unnerved by the thieves and their tiny wooden spears. Time to go I suppose. Traveling is simply a part of life. And as long as the Gemberzee stays lost in the wilderness of the past for now we’ll be fine and travel toward the sun. “Don’t forget the stars”, said my brother, “they too can shine away the darkest of the spider’s milk.”
I keep having bad dreams about my place of employment(I’m a server.. a.. waiter.. whatever). It’s horrible. In real life the restaurant and all the staff are hellish nightmares enough, but in my dreams they become even more distorted versions of themselves, twisting and contorting into an evil that isn’t easily described. Devils and demons of the underworld they connive to find a seat at the right seat of pure evil by way of hollandaise and filet mignon. It’s terrible. The beasts all swoop down upon us like fires from the after life of a Back to the Future Part Two type tangent. When arrival finally comes we find that our Mothers and our Fathers are actually someone else’s and everything we held dear actually belongs to the throngs of Satan. AKA fuck working in a restaurant.
Christmas
Precious youth is the tender nature of a spirit found whispering about the base of a Christmas tree. Freedom is the expression of that nature in all of us. Be blessed and have a Happy Holiday.
-Michael
Autumn Moon and the Devil’s Hands
The moon is full tonight. And no matter how many times I sweep off the leaves from my back porch they still keep piling up like bills from an IRS audit. Peace is easy to find on an autumn eve such as this, when the moon is bright and all is sound but the rustling of naked trees in the crisp fall air. I find that I write best in times of seasonal transition, when something is dying yet something else is being born.
I stare at my hands, so coarse and rigid, holding the glass of whiskey by the side of my childhood school bus. They are good hands, aren’t they? They look tender for all their abnormalities. Like clay fish in the sea. Remember all that time ago when we learned such things together? What strange times those were. To feel such glory was a medal about our necks that now we shouldn’t deserve. And so the devil reminds us on nights like these. Red tail and poker or jester and joker, his hands are no different than mine.
The Wild Blood
I’ve had this re-accurring nightmare of waking five minutes late to stage call and none of my pedals are working. I spend the rest of the dream scurrying around the sold out theatre looking for 9 volt batteries and performing “Easter egg” hunts for power supplies to make the show happen, knowing full well that I should be on stage giving the show of my life for the night to come.
I suppose dream experts would say that this is a short glimpse into the insecurity of my true subconscious, but I say it’s really just a hearkening back to my childhood during times of duress when my Mother would tell me that the house needed to be spotless upon the the return of my Father from his evangelical road trip. Truth be told I wanted nothing more than to follow in the footsteps of my Father in becoming a true preacher to the masses. Although he fell short I knew that my path lie somewhere beyond the pulpit.
My Father, at an early age, sought after the shimmer and lime life of a Hollywood actor, having spent a large portion of his life attempting to break onto the silver screen. Unfortunately he never made it past the shadows of the lighting crew for several large production films in studio B on Universals back lot. But what his youth and thereafter did show me was that being fit for stage was feasible outside the confines of the Hollywood walk of fame. For a guy who could transform himself from quiet family man into fire and brimstone evangelist he showed me that being shy should never stop someone from pursuing a life in front of an audience. To this day I still get respectful shivers down my spine when watching him transform from dad to preacher. People who know me now tell a similar tale about my reticence and how my stage persona seems like “another me”. But for those who can’t understand it, it IS me, It’s just the inner me that wishes he could get out. And in that hour in front of a crowd, I am. Is there a greater high? If so, I am unaware of it.
The quiet son of a reticent preacher becoming a rock and roll singer that reaches the masses… how close are we to sharing the same life? It’s in the blood. The Wild Blood, I guess you could say. Cheers to you Dad. You made me this way. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Always Out Loud
After a long hard day at work I like to sit back in the lean of my bar stool and eat a blue cheese and cranberry salad with olive oil and red vinegar dressing. It calms the rain to a dull moan outside the windows of my kitchen leading out in to the jungle. Afterwords a few readings from Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. Always out loud.
the cat and the lion
When up against a wall the cat will leap forward against the lion and call upon his wildly friends from the underworld. All of them are sick with hunger but brave and ready for the hunt.
