Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

Going more slowly, he continued. He had brought with him some figs, which he now pulled out and devoured. When he had followed the river's complete turning, he found himself facing the sun in the west, looking up a small valley that lay between two gently graded, bare hills. At the end was a steeper hill, reddish in colour, and in the side of the hill was a dark aperture. He liked caves, and was tempted to set out for it. But distances here were deceptive, and there might not be time before dark; besides, he did not feel the necessary energy inside him. 'Tomorrow I'll come earlier and go up,' he said to himself. He stood looking up the valley a little wistfully, his tongue seeking the fig seeds between his teeth, with the small tenacious flies for ever returning to crawl along his face. And it occurred to him that a walk through the countryside was a sort of epitome of the passage through life itself. One never took the time to savour the details; one said: another day, but always with the hidden knowledge that each day was unique and final, that there never would be a return, another time.

-Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky




Today I've been taking life slowly and savouring the details. Savouring the rain that may help stave off stage four water restrictions in our drought-ravaged city. Walking from my house to Sydney Road and spending the whole morning op-shopping. Slowly making my way through the culinary delights of Brunswick: this morning it was El-Faiha sweets; last time it was cannoli ricotta from Pasticceria Italia (my first cannoli ever!).

I may not have a lot of money, but when you can walk home with a bag full of op-shop gems and Lebanese treats from Sydney Road, with change from your twenty dollar note left in your pocket, who needs it?