The Maroon Diaries

This post here  by Kirsty, an Australian woman living in France, at  You had me at bonjour  really touched and moved me this morning. I considered typing a post consisting of my thoughts on this occasion, and it would have been a fabulous post, but my brain just wasn't up for wrapping itself around an essay today. I felt the need to make a more tactile, physical, domestic gesture. And so, to the kitchen, and to the baking of Anzac biscuits. My recipe comes from the P.W.M.U. Cookery Book, first published 1904. My copy, pictured here, is a 1971 reprint passed down to me from a great-aunt. This was the cookbook in my home when I was growing up. I have doubled all the quantities given, because one batch is just not enough. 4 cups rolled oats 2 cups flour 1 cup sugar 1 cup melted butter 2 tbsp golden syrup 2 tsp bicarb soda 4 tbsp boiling water Mix oats, flour, sugar and melted butter, then the syrup, and lastly the soda dissolved in water. Drop by spoonful onto baki

While Europe was immersed in what we now describe as The Dark Ages, Arabic and Islamic cultures were blooming, and among the many flowers that grew are some of the most profound and beautiful poems in the world. Here today, in the Maroon Poetry Corner, we have a small selection from some of my favourite poets, Rumi, Kabir, and Lalla, as an example the poetry of the Sufi mystics.  S ufism  is a branch of mysticism in the Islamic tradition. There is a lot of dancing and music and poetry involved - creative expression in honour of the divine. Once upon a time, I arrived to stay at a friend's house and found her in the middle of an acute psychotic break/manic episode. As you can image, we were up all night. I swear I tried everything short of shooting her with a tranquiliser dart to get her to go down. It was indeed fortunate that I had selected my copy of  The Soul is Here for its Own Joy - Sacred Poems from Many Cultures, edited by Robert Bly  as a travelling companion that day. So

I'm talking about the possum. But if the possum could blog, he would probably be complaining about me being the unwelcome intruder. It depends on your point of view. This feller here is the current resident of the Possum Hilton, which is a really, really big tree just behind my house. It really is an unusually large and opulent tree for such a densely built-up residential area, standing around 20m high and quite broad too, and makes a damn fine piece of real estate for the modern urban possum. He has a real personality, this cheeky little bugger, he does. He makes it quite clear that the backyard belongs to him, not us, and is the reason why the biodiversity of my vege garden is limited to onions. He loves having his photo taken, and he's also quite good at impersonations. His favourite is the one where he sounds just like a crazed methamphetamine addict who is trying to break into the house by tearing the tin sheeting off the roof.

Today was a hospital day - half the day spent at the hospital while Mr CJ has a nerve-treating procedure, performed by a pain management specialist. Hmmm sounds like fun...not...much! But I have had enough of these hospital days to give me time to apply my philosophy of looking for the beauty in the everyday, of believing it is always there to be found, even surrounded by all the disasters and dramas that go on every day in a public hospital. So today I took my camera around the building and grounds for a little tourist-in-your-own-town action. One of my favourite things about this hospital is that is has its own book stall. What a brilliant idea! It's located as obviously as possible, just inside the main entrance, and there is always something different to see here. Some days the shelves are so chockers with books you can hardly get one out without knocking the whole stand over, then a few days later the shelves might be all but bare. All books are $1 and I think I've seen

Hello, dear readers! I didn't want to leave you all in the nasty gloom of yesterday's  tale of woe and despair , so now, just for fun, we'll be having a look at one of my most extraordinary salvaged treasures. There may be some who are wondering how looking through an encyclopaedia is something to be celebrated as extra, super, FUN - if that's how you're feeling, well then, you might often find things a little odd around here at The Maroon Diaries. I found this book about six years ago at the  Hobart tip shop  Resource Recovery Centre, which means that it was salvaged directly from the tip. To say it's in poor condition might be putting it mildly. It is still technically a book, thanks to the incredible quality of the stitching holding the signatures together, but I sometimes think that it won't be long before it will really just be a pile of related pages. The front cover is missing entirely, and the back cover and spine exist separately to the text block

When I started this blog, I decided that I really didn't want to be one of those bloggers who just whinge and whine. It's one thing to share hard stuff you're going through, it's another to just bitch and moan. I decided that I would apply the advice of the proverb I often heard used as a child - if you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Well, maybe that was a good theory - but I can see now that it's just not going to work out in practice. And so, a rant. If you don't feel inclined to read a rant about the evils of corporations and all such modern inconveniences, feel free to log off now and come back later when there's something more fun going on. You see, dear reader, I have spent two half-days over the last week on the phone, arguing with the phone company and their debt collectors. Perhaps a shiver is now running down your spine as you recall the horror of your own experience. The news is always full of dreadful sta

I went to the dentist this morning. It's incredible how the mention of a visit to the dentist strikes fear in the heart of even the biggest, toughest and meanest. We seem to have this deeply entrenched cultural agreement that dental work is a terrible thing to have to go through, deserving of much sympathy. We hold up the hypothetical trip to the dentist as a measure against which to compare all unpleasant or painful experiences. Just the sort of thing that I want to look for the beauty in. Just to be a bit subversive. Now, I'm not a masochist - obviously, there's no denying that a dental procedure, with all that drilling and grinding and poking and whatnot is an uncomfortable, unpleasant experience, even with the dramatic improvements in anaesthetics. But I have found a way to remember to look on the bright side and not let that discomfort become distress. I'm lucky that the public dental services in my area are really good. These services can really vary a lot i