moons and serious questions

There was one point while imitation boogie-boarding in Corpus last week when I was suddenly unsure whether the rhythmic tides were pushing me sand-ward or pulling me out into blue nothingness. It was horizontal vertigo, and suddenly the land lovers seemed much further away than they should be. After a few seconds of noncommon-sensical shark fear, I slid off the board and realize I could still touch.

No such thing happened today at Bull Creek. The creek rushes one way, and one way only, and strongly. Beautiful leaves kept clinging to me as they were swept away, and I sat in the cool water and read Tom Robbins. The following passage answered questions in my heart too slippery to ask properly:

"Consider a certain night in August. Princess Leigh-Cheri was gazing out of her attic window. The moon was full. The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over. Imagine awakening to find the moon flat on its face on the bathroom floor, like the late Elvis Presley, poisoned by banana splits. It was a moon that could still wild passions in a moo cow. A moon that could bring out the devil in a bunny rabbit. A moon that could turn lug nuts into moonstones, turn Little Red Riding Hood into the big bad wolf. For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the mandala of the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" she inquired of Prince Charming.
Prince Charming pretended that she had asked a silly question. Perhaps she had. The same query put to the Remington SL3 elicited this response:
Albert Camus wrote that the only serious qustion is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is:
Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself."

--Still Life with Woodpecker