Michele Sherin Piazza

what we remember…

Posted in inspiration by Michele Piazza on August 25, 2008

The below photos are not my own. I came across them along with many blurry others – equally wonderful – in a found collection called “What We Remember” at the site SquareAmerica.com

Its funny to me, the way we struggle to remember each detail of things. The constant quest for crisper real-life photography. A more precise documentation. The most fail-proof means of archive like to bypass our minds’ own inferior memory system. Comparatively speaking.

But maybe we’re not meant to remember so clearly. Maybe its some kind of emotional survival to gloss over the bad parts of our past. Blur out the mundane. Filter facts down to that beautiful, soft and warm little core of the moment – of the person – the place – because, without it, moving on might be hard. Also, forgiveness. Or acceptance.

Or maybe what this is about is really just some really awesome old photographs.

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searching for the invisible

Posted in photography, writing by Michele Piazza on August 21, 2008

Ah, the muse. I need really to get me one of those. Something or someone I keep chained in the basement (which I don’t actually have) to tap into for inspiration whenever I find myself dry – like blood for the vampire.

crash 2006

All summer, I’ve had trouble writing new scenes. Seeing them, as writer’s say. The how and why of it is nothing I could ever begin to explain. Why do we see made up worlds in the first place? If truth is stranger than fiction, with the abundance of wild and true stories in the world, the non-writer (non-creator) might wonder why anyone would devote years of their lives on the make believe. (And, so frequently, sacrificing time with our real-life friends and family to be spent with the people that live in our heads.)

All I can says is its because they don’t feel make believe. Not this far into it. Mostly, latlely, its as though I’m working on a documentary – or penning a biography. I know a scene or piece of dialogue is right when it feels in my head like a fact. When I can see every detail of the room and the characters go about their business like I’m not even there. Like I’m not in camouflage, tucked in the corner with my pen and pad, my video camera trying to take it all down. Trying to get all the facts straight. So that I can go home and write about it when it’s over.

So what do you do when they stop letting you in the front door? When they figure you out, catch the reporter listening in on their conversations, the paparazzi in the tree out the window making their picture. And they pull down the shades. Cut the phone lines. Stop big brother from watching before you get the real dirt on them. The what it is they have hiding that makes all the rest of your facts seem like just junk for the tabloids.

Here is what my book has so far: the bones. Scenes sprinkled throughout the storyline with these holes where the real meat goes. And all I’ve got are these clues. Little scraps of things taped in a notebook that I keep trying to make sense out of. And it’s not really working.

So the writer’s block continues.. and don’t nobody it’s because I’m not trying.