Writers' Studio

Neurobiology and Behavior

(Thank you for this conversation Paul Grobstein)

“Maybe, it isn't

That there is something

To behavior other than the brain; but,

That there is something

To the brain other than behavior.”

“But aren’t neurons black boxes?”

“I suspect so,

Still neurons are not the storyteller.”

“This is the story of science as a story?”

“Our undertaking is subject

To the VAGARIES of the currents, winds, and tides

And our own will or lack thereof.

Therefore,

We must return time

And again, not only to find

But to create, and again to find and create.”

“Neurons are stories.” 

“The nervous self system…”

“Now I see

How science is living by the sea. 

Where, washed upon the shore are stories;

There to be captured

And dropped down again. 

Again,

Littering the terrain, so

The terrain is never the same, so

Know that truth and time are interwoven,”

I wrote. 

“Yep

Rich powerful writing

Part of you

You have been keeping under wraps,”

Wrote the neurobiologist.

“Stories are black boxes.”

…

When I am storytelling my life,

People often ask what happened, and I reply,

He is solid wood

Seasoned with wind and fighting

To light sodden logs

Bright is life and death is steam

Fire alarm am I. 

Give in.
Go ahead, 
Slice my soma.
Violate my 
Parotid stroma.
Just please don't let me 
Wake up in a coma.
Pleomorphic Adenoma.

lines and colors of menacing lullaby, a child
trapped inside a wooden sub
my brave painting --

changes.
ribbons  cuts   and    writings.
watchful eyes of a figure at the top
turn to loops, now

magnets.
also small gently pillared dwellings,
mini mausolea maybe

now when the cradle starts to fall
the magnets pull it to

now somebody sings a yellow song
now a swirled one
now a baby bounces

when the wind blows
the artist breathes

-- Alice Lesnick, 2012

Morning Radio Sonnet
by Alice Lesnick

I must be getting old.
This morning I listened with deep feeling 
To a story of research chimps held by the NIH
Now recommended for retirement to
Sanctuaries, where they would be let to forage for food,
Build nests, live in groups (of at least 7), and
Go outside when they want to. I want that these chimpanzees 
Should retire in a state of grace
Like my grandmother after she stepped down from Met Life
(Her first paying job) – a position she held for 12 years 
After my grandfather died young. 

She retired to Glen Cove to live with my cousins:
Kept house in their house,
Met them with milk and cookies after school;
Volunteered in the hospital gift shop where she got me
jewels and chocolates when I came to visit.

I would visit the research chimps and tell them:
We are sorry for your loss.

It started with a series of presents a wooden carving of an Icelandic horse, a fleece-lined sleeping bag, and a plain cloth book.  I used the pony to model for an updated photograph of myself as a ballet dancer waiting for the annual recital to begin.  I tested the sleeping bag in my car, in 16^oF weather, in a strange rest stop.  But the book was a problem.  What to do with a book I can’t read?  After accepting the help of Google Translate, I found out the title, Ritsafn, and author, Olof Sigurdardottir, of my book.  I looked for a translation, none exists; there isn’t a lot of Icelandic literature translated into English, I learned.  Her book, it looks is out of print in Icelandic alas.  Interestingly, my book is a collection of poetry and fairy tales, the third and final published work of a woman farmer writer.  That her husband was a carpenter formed the basis for my poem comparing the author to myself.  My carpenter (the presenter) seemed satisfied.  I was still curious.  This is the story of how I decided to start a series of homophonic translations of my book.

I want to get
older with you
read in
bed with you
every night
like tonight
we've got
time but
that bright star
looking through
our dark window
the reflection
more beautiful
than this what
happens when
the water's too
tired to clean
our human shores
the air too
thick to see
stars caught in
fall trees'
capillaries
choking
well I'll be
listening
to your
tender breath 
I'll be more
steadfast than
that nightlight 
sleep sound to
your soft fall
and swell
dreaming of 
waking with
you of
waking
with you. 

At one time or another, every writer turns into a teenager.  They fold their arms across their chest and lean back against their chair silent.  They are sullen.  Finally, the frustrated writer exclaims, “you don’t understand me at all!” 

What is a writing teacher to do with a teenager?  This is what I would call a teachable moment.  It is the place where the writer’s technique has failed.  Their craft is insufficient to convey their intentions.  Every student writer needs to learn how to realize their intentions in their writing.  This is true from anthropology papers to poems. 

I would like to make a place for student intent within the teaching of writing. The student writer must to be able to talk about their intent and figure out what technique they should use to realize it.  Sometimes talking about intent in another form is freeing for the writer.  Changes in form and genre can be freeing.   It is essential for the teacher to experience the gap between the student’s intentions and their work.  The teacher should try to help the student bridge the gap by means of better technique.  The potential for revision is what makes teacher’s critiques different from those of literary scholars.