Blog

Sometimes the energy it takes...

…to keep quiet and not express who you are at work, in a relationship, anywhere that deems you ‘too much’ is more exhausting than being, you.

I’ve been backed into a corner where I’m torn between speaking up or staying shtum to keep a confected peace.

Ever had to wear a mask to pacify?

And the grip of an existential crisis tightens. Who am I, when silenced? Should I write? For whom, what? Countless ideas. Controversial, true. Will I ever share?

Cue a chicken’s cluck.

I’m not scared of the dark. I’ll dance with glum thoughts. Let my optimism ghost me – it is Halloween after all. But I’d rather jig with joy. And my son’s new CD fills the air,

Here Comes the Sun. Nice timing.

This week I started reading Liza Minnelli’s autobiography, Kids, Wait Till You Hear This! Mixed in with her sweet and sour recollections, she shared her favourite song, A Quiet Thing by Kander & Ebb.

‘When it all comes true, just the way you planned, it’s funny how the bells don’t ring. It’s a quiet thing. Happiness comes in on tip-toe. Well whaddaya know. It’s a quiet thing.’

Yes, to this whisper-soft phenomenon. I’ve felt it when I’m freely, me; interviewing astounding people, talking to crowds, grooving to funk, shouting my views for robust ears. No cowering. No costumes.

Here’s my wish for you on All Hallows’ Eve.

May the only disguise you ever don is to trick or treat.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

How many times in your life...

…has someone tried to mask a criticism, a slight or blatant disrespect by uttering the cop-out phrase,

“It’s not personal.”

And how many times after these asinine words have unfurled in your face, flaccid-dick-style, did you yearn to say,

“Not personal, my ass.”

No one will ever say these words to you unless a dagger has just been hurled your way.

Maybe taking everything to heart is an exhausting way to live. But what’s the alternative? Plod through life like nothing ever touches you? Is it even possible to filter out peoples’ f*ckwittery in favour of just the fun, loving stuff? I can’t.

Turning the other cheek feels like we’re just forgetting our flesh and bloodiness in these bot-fuelled times.

I maintain that recognising, nay, celebrating our humanity is a revolutionary act. I’m happy to be labelled ‘too sensitive’.

This week I almost got wiped out by a truck that ran a red light. I lifted my foot millimetres off the curb to cross and at that very second the truck flashed past me – a lightspeed torrent of fumes and metal. He wouldn’t have meant to fling me into oblivion.

It’s not personal, just morning rush hour, love.

Everything is personal because we are living, breathing, unique and beautiful, walking riots of emotions and experiences, triggers, fears and dreams and, and…

Trying to dress up the phrase as anything other than an insult to injury is akin to saying,

It’s not you, it’s me.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

I shared my first bunch of words on...

…Substack last night – or as I like to call it, the sub of stacks; this was my somewhat cute way of making a tiny, tiny wave in an otherwise giant ocean of wordy folks with bios like…

“Staying in my deeply rooted intuitive presence, as I wrench myself beyond comfort.”

Substack seems to be the home for writers’ writers with articles and posts so achingly profound, I’m almost nervous about sharing my thoughts there. But I will. And with gusto. Even if I’m ‘competing’ with headlines like:

How to f*** your way to way to wealth without touching anyone.

Anyway, here’s my maiden effort (inspired by the Rumi quote: “I am a lover with or without a lover, because love is who I am, not who I’m with.”)

This little collection of 19 words, by the supernatural Rumi, is how I want to begin my stack of subs for you. Because when all is said and written, love is the be all and end all of – me.

I leave you with a quote that stopped the spin of my thoughts when I heard it a few hours ago. Comedian Billy Crystal was talking about the 60-year love affair with his wife, Janice.

“When you can’t describe someone, that’s how big it is.”

If you’re going to bed with only a pillow to hug, take heart. Crystal’s quote also works in how you feel about your life’s work, your favourite view…

Try it. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

I’ve kicked off this Phylosophy…

…like a stalker, which is not entirely inaccurate, but my intention is really rather benign, friend.

This week I walked my first intentional 10,000 steps. Uphill. Downhill. To the sea. Past folks sipping pricey coffee grounds in painfully chic establishments. On and on I walked, a spring in my gait, a song in my head.

And as I huffed and puffed my way towards the lofty goal, it was only with a mild sense of accomplishment and a huge dose of, far out, am I seriously turning into one of those unbearable power walker types, offering to stroll with you anywhere, anytime, please take me with you, ‘cause ‘I gotta get my steps up, up!’

Sure. Walking is a great weight-bearing exercise. Your heart loves it. Brain does too. But what pedantic schmuck dreamt up these digits? And why must it be a daily thing – bunions be damned!

Well science was never part of the equation. Marketing was. In 1965 a Japanese advertising campaign for a pedometer called, Manpo-kei (which means the 10,000-steps meter) spawned the multi-step phenomenon.  

And here’s the kicker. Thousands and thousands and thousands of steps is not the path to thinner thighs, I mean, glowing good health. According to a review published by Harvard Health, your body will reap the benefits around 7,000 steps. 

That’s better.

As for my allergy to following the pack up hill and down dale, albeit in sensible footwear…

Well. If you can’t beat ‘em – walk ‘em. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

I’m currently devouring…

The Land and Its People by David Sedaris. He also happens to come from Greek stock – which deepens my adoration.

Sedaris brings a whole heart and surgical approach to his observations on life and its people. The detail, delicious.

Reading his words is like listening to a gorgeous song that hits the write notes and chimes with my scribe-y soul so I wanna hum it everywhere. My melody sounds like…

A 20-something student walks onto my path. He’s dressed in head-to-toe designer gear in poo brown, knee-high socks, with a haircut fashioned after a salad bowl. I speed up so I can walk ahead. Not in the mood for quirky aesthetics.

Town Hall is already abuzz with homeless services – a blend of heartbreak and hope. The chirpy signs are up – Breakfast, Bible, Chat! I spot a slight man in a knit mini dress shuffling towards the makeshift food set up. He doesn’t have the hips for that frock.  

I catch a video glimpse of myself giving a friend three quick kisses on the cheek and I look so serious – like I’ve poured my entire heart, valves n’ all into those pecks; making love a solemn business. Why?

And as I write at my dining room table, I overhear a gardener confess to his co-worker in the greenhouse near my balcony,

“You’re my favourite one to work with. I trust your word more… you know?”

Who wouldn’t want to look at life through a heart-shaped lens? Not me. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Wonder and the WTFs are waiting…

…for you around every corner.

I’m greeted by a neighbour’s children in the lift, ready for a pre-school walk with their spindly greyhound. He’s circling their legs, excited. They say his name. Wha-? What did you call him? Séance. Séance? Yeah. Who named him that? Dad. Do you know what it means? Um, no? I get out on Ground before I need to explain the spooky moniker.

The guy next to me on the tram chews gum so loud, like he’s breaking some kind of clown barrier. Outside Woolworths at Town Hall the morning freak show assembles; there’s a muscly dude, face full of tattoos, urgently scribbling in his journal. A few metres away a homeless man is talking to a well-dressed woman who seems to have stopped for a chat?

No. As I walk past, I hear him describing the chips he wants from the store like he’s ordering filet mignon. She nods and dashes off.

A happy little plea from my local grocer lands in my inbox inviting me to drop by and see his topless pineapples. The alliteration sublime.

Who knew this juicy summer snack could be so seductive?

I dance with Gen Z club-goers who revere old school soul vibes like 50-something connoisseurs; yell-singing the lyrics, in love with the vintage, they snap photos on a real camera.

Confucius said, “Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.”

And I want to add, everything has meaning, but not everyone feels it. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Sometimes I think…

…that unless you’ve got wildly thrilling tales to share about your life like…

…that time you skydived out of an ancient plane held together by masking tape… pinned a live bug shaped like a brooch to your t-shirt in a Mexican market… pissed off an Amish man who thought you were stopping his black car for directions, not a selfie… gave a fake orgasm for your first TED talk… stole one of the prop crucifixes from the set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer…

Unless your life bursts with enough quirk and success to warrant your own bio pic starring a Hollywood hot shot seeking an Oscar nod – what’s the point?!

Who am I kidding. I don’t think this at all. Even though I have genuinely hurtled to earth with a stranger strapped to my back. Wore bug jewellery. Annoyed a cult member. Reached a staged climax. Committed a little larceny.

Life ain’t a highlight reel.

I celebrated my birthday this week on a day stuffed with blue sky and a priceless blend of ‘ordinary’ like…

Eating deep dish pancakes with my sons in a diner. Going on an Op Shop spree for more Levi’s than is practical. Walked by the heritage-listed building I was born in. Served up fresh smoked salmon for my 96-year-old mother (but only after I removed the dark bits from the fish because she’ll only eat the pink parts). Read birthday cards that made me cry.

Looks dull. Feels shiny.

No A-Lister necessary. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Barbra Streisand sings an iconic…

…timeless lyric that’s always held me spellbound – and in awe. 

“People who need people, are the luckiest people in the world.”

Why are they lucky? Because they understand the value of needing that warm, supernatural stuff found in connection, belonging and … love.

Now. Let’s fold this needy concept into the AI age.

Yeah, this is another bot rant. So, look away now if you’ve swallowed the tech rhetoric hook, line and… blinkered.

This week I’ve done existential battle with bots again. It’s so tedious particularly when I’m surrounded by folks who have surrendered to the dark (f)art.

The mania that seems to have gripped most AI users as far as I can see is akin to the juvenile catchcry, look Ma, no hands! The subtext being, I can do this all by myself. And I don’t need you!

Cue maniacal laughter.

It’s quietly demoralising too, if I let the tech get to me. So that’s when – as a self-dubbed ‘organic scribe’ – I lean on my brain’s might.

“…like melted icicles in my mouth…” This is how I describe the cold tap water swishing around my molars after I brush ‘em first thing.

No. I’m not out to make Pulitzer proud, but that’s hardly the point.

I just love the making. The friction of wrestling with a sentence. Conjuring up quirk. I want my thoughts to morph into words that mock homogeny. I need to feel it. All.

And I guess that makes me lucky.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Light and shade. One can’t exist…

…without the other we’re told. We believe it. But detest it too.

Last week I shared the loss of my friend, Ray. And you sent your love in calls, texts, hugs and emails. Thank you.

One note came from a great lady I met a couple years ago at a silent meditation retreat.

“Glitter only works because there are shadows.” She wrote.

Wow. Sweet and bitter all at once. But Liz is right.

And I think of the sequinned garb in my wardrobe shooting sparks of light across the ceiling when the sun strikes it. But, at night, the tiny discs are dark.  

As much as I love a showy sequin, the appeal is in its ephemeral nature. Would we love the sparkle as much if it never dulled? We’d need to look away sometimes.

I’m reading a beautiful book right now called, Sandwich by Catherine Newman. It’s essentially about loss – of youth, parents, rearing our young children.

One stunning sentence lights up a page,

“I’d even pick the way that pain has burnished me to brightness.” Newman writes.

And it felt like she’d reached into grief’s sludge and wrestled this gem to the surface.

Does pain polish us, not punish? The friction a blessing of sorts?

Kinda like a pearl exists because of a pissed off oyster.  

Maybe, like the sequin, our power lies in the ability to catch light and go on shining in spite of the dark or… because of it.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Grief slapped me awake last night.

My phone rang just after 3am from No Caller ID. A male voice. Garbled accent. Sorry, wrong number, he said.

I hung up thinking, who’s making calls at this hour? And then I looked at my texts.

It took a foggy second or two to make sense of what I was seeing – a sepia-tinted image of my beloved friend, Ray alongside the words,

‘…another good human gone. Way too soon.’

What?! No. It’s a prank. We just messaged over a week ago. A few keystrokes later and I’m on a tribute page dedicated to his memory. But I still fell for futility and sent Ray a text.

Raymou?!

Straw clutching of the highest order because fading hope f**ks with you.  

Raymond Christodoulou and I met in a London ad agency 20+ years ago. He was a brilliant senior copywriter, intuitive, cool and witty beyond measure.

It was love at first write.

We also bonded over our Greekness and when we started writing a screenplay together, planning our limo ride to the movie premiere was just as important as plotting our flick’s twists and turns. Ever the Hellenic dreamers.

Ray loved these Phylosophies and hardly a week went by when he didn’t send me an email bursting with ’embarrassing’ serves of praise and cheerleading,

“Just don’t stop Philosophysing.”

Grief sucks. And when I’m plunged into this murky place, I search for signs, clues, anything that will help me divine sense out of the incomprehensible.

How can my funny, generous, wise and profound, life-loving Ancient Greek be gone?

The sun was starting to rise on my first day without Ray. I looked at my phone again. No Caller ID had rung me at 3:33am. Grief pushed me to look up the meaning of these digits.  

Angel Number 333 tells you that the Ascended Masters are near you.

Ha. Figures.

While my friend didn’t part seas or turn water into wine (though that would’ve probably been his favourite Messianic trick), Ray absolutely mastered the gentle art of being a magnificent human.

Our world isn’t a darker place now that he’s gone. It’s brighter because Ray lived in it.

Raymou, I will love you and miss you more than all my Phylosophies will ever say.

Always.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026