The Maroon Diaries

I used to keep journals. I kept them lovingly, faithfully and well. Journalling was an important and cherished part of my life. I discovered so much of myself through my journals. Or at least that’s how I remember it. Because my journals were so important to me, I’d keep them every time I edited my possessions in order to move house. By the time I turned 30 I’d collected a big, heavy pile of journals. It might not look so big to some – I’ve often read writers’ accounts of having piles of old journals stacked from floor to ceiling in their attics or cellars. I’m guessing that these are mostly the kinds of people who have houses with attics and cellars and get to stay put in them for long periods of time. But me, every fucking time I moved house or even re-organised the one I was living in, I’d have to pack the fucking things up, lug them about from here to fucking there, and find somewhere to bloody well store them again. You can tell how frustrated I’ve become by this by all the fu...

I've travelled, and been to galleries, and studied the Masters and perused expensive art books, but after all my adventures, I must say that the most amazing art is often not found within these traditional boundaries. I love to notice and discover art in the wild, scrawled on city walls and stuck up with blu-tack in the most unexpected places. I discovered this piece of writing on such a scrap of paper, on the wall of the toilet in a share house in Scotts Head, New South Wales, and recorded it in my journal on August 17, 2000. The celebrity references clearly indicate its vintage. I have no idea who the author might be - if you think you might know who she is, or maybe who melina & giselle might be, I would love to hear from you. Alternative spellings are rendered true to the original. ***** REEL WIMMIN (inspired by melina & giselle, & Arnie movie bimbos) And I say 'fuck you, fuck you' to the smarmy smooth images of long-legged blonde bimbos, tottering m...

I've been a stationery addict since I was just a little kid. I remember the first time I felt that thrilling rush that girls can get while shopping, the one that the whole consumerism movement depends upon exploiting. I was seven years old and in a newsagency/bookshop, surrounded by books and notepads, pens, pencils, rulers and rubber erasers in such an astounding variety of shapes and styles that I marvelled that anyone could come up with the idea to make all these things into colourful little rubbers. Shining accessories were lined up in neat categories, each item defined by its little perspex slot. I can remember the absolutely rapt fascination with which I regarded my first-ever start-of-school-year supplies, aged four. I don't remember ever feeling so deeply about any toys or dolls. It was books, and paper and scissors, and tape and glue and suchlike, that inspired my early explorations of the properties of the physical world. I can still become overwhelmed by such fe...

I made a dreamcatcher today. It's something that I've never done before.  I've never used a dreamcatcher myself before, either, but I wanted to make one for a friend who is troubled by nightmares. I find it hard to do something that I'm not already sure I know I can do well. I put it off for quite a while, and had it in my mind to focus on starting it today. I started by writing in my journal about it, and once I identified and named the 'Not Good Enough' fear-thoughts, resistance melted and I was off with needle and thread. Technique was another matter. Someone did show me how to make dreamcatchers once - about 13 years ago. But it was enough to start playing around with it. I started off much too loose and loopy but worked it out somewhere in the middle. I believe a messy dreamcatcher will likely work as well as a neat one. It just needs some dangly bits coming down. I want to use little bunches of eucalyptus leaves. A short Walking Adventure shall be i...

On February 14, 2001, I went to a certain pub in North Hobart to attend a local writers' open mic event, with a theme, rather appropriately, of Valentine's Day. I'd seen some fliers around. I went alone, carrying my journal in my bag. I was so nervous. My heart was in my throat the whole time. I didn't know what to order from the bar. I don't drink beer and I hadn't yet discovered the delights of sparkling wines. I settled on a Stones and ginger. I sat way at the back of the room. I watched and listened as, one after another, people went up to a small impromptu lectern and read stories, poems, letters and essays, all somehow related to the phenomenon of love in all its varied manifestations, aloud to the audience, perhaps some two dozen people. As each person finished their piece, there would be a moderate, polite round of applause. I was unsure as to the protocol or procedure for getting up the front to read, so I waited until it seemed that most people had alr...