Museletter the Sixty-seventh

Whenever you eat or drink something, there are atoms and molecules that weren't you, and then at some point — by ingesting them — become you, right? So… let's say you drink a glass of water: At what time does one of those H20 molecules become part of you? When it's in your mouth? Your stomach? Do you need to wait until it's absorbed into your blood stream before you say it's "you"? Or does it need to migrate through osmosis all the way into one of your cells before you get to say, "yup, that's me now!"

This might seem like a crazy question, but most of us have quite a lot invested in maintaining this idea of self and identity. So I think it's worthwhile taking a moment to consider that fine borderline between "me" and "not me."?

Actually, what if the process starts earlier than expected: when the water is in the glass. Perhaps it's the intention to ingest it that makes it part of you? If that's the case, then could the water be part of you when it's still in the faucet? In the reservoir? In the raindrop?

There's definitely a point at which that molecule is not part of you, and then is… right?

My Poor Little Pet

I don't remember what the heck we were doing with a leech in my 7th grade science class — it must have been some kind of biology experiment, but that was done now and our teacher was going to flush the little creature away… and so I asked if I could take it home in a jar of water.

Yes, I had a pet leech for a time. Of course, it's likely my primary goal was to freak out my sister, but as I watched it sitting listlessly in its little jar-quarium, I felt bad for it. After all, Horton had taught us that a creatures's a creature, no matter how small (or how gross).

I tried feeding it insects, but apparently it was a picky eater. I did try to prick myself with a thumbtack to draw a little blood in the water for him, but quickly gave up because it turns out that's really painful! You'll be relieved to learn I never actually put the little guy on my skin. (I didn't know at the time that leeches can actually be quite good for some skin conditions, but that's another story.)?

Anyway, I'm no leech whisperer, but after a couple weeks even I could tell he wasn't happy. So down the toilet he went, after all. At the time, I hoped my actions would help him find a happy, prosperous place, but then my hopes turned to fears: To this day, I imagine an army of enormous 5-foot leeches squishing their way through the Palo Alto sewers. Ooops.

I Wrote That

I suffer from a bizarre delusion that leads me to believe that if I've written something — especially something I've published in a book — then everyone, and most particularly, my own family, will know it. "Come on," I insist with regularity, "I wrote that 20 years ago!"

Doesn't everyone know that Tu Bishvat is the "Jewish New Year for Trees"? Or that the phrase "Sir, I have a rhyme excelling" is a good mnemonic for the number pi? (Count the letters in each word.) Or that pressing the Tab key in most Adobe products hides/shows all the user interface panels??

After all, I wrote all these things down somewhere, sometime…?

Now, here's the embarrassing part: It's surprisingly common for me to go search the web with a question, and discover an article or chapter of a book in which I wrote the answer! So not only did I not remember the piece of information, or that I had known the answer at one time, but I didn't even remember that I had published it!

I suppose if I can't be bothered to remember these things, then I can't hold my family responsible for remembering either.?

Thank You!

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