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A question as ancient as time.  

But also, a pointless interrogation in my humble view.

Who are you?

The smiling one with the light in your eyes? Daughter. Son. Forgotten friend? Wife. Husband. Mother. Father. The confused one. Ambitious. Torn. Divorced. In love. Alone?

Life has many habits; it’s designed to surprise, delight, alarm and cheat on you. A myriad. Still. The question begs – on hands and knees it seems.

Who are you? Does the answer catch in your throat?

Maybe it’s more comforting to believe something else entirely… Life may not want you to

know. Ever. Because the answer’s a changing, shifting thing.

You.

Always evolving, morphing from one phase to the next. In silence. Uninterrupted by

introspection. Undisturbed by the external?

Your brain is electrified with change, daily. Cells in your body die and reimagine themselves back into being.

Who are you?

Relax. Ignore society’s urges to ‘find yourself’. To settle on your favourite dessert. Test your sexuality. Decide what you enjoy listening to, watching, reading. To quickly land on the definitives and be that, just that, love that for always.

Pause. The. Pressure. Please?

Maybe only some things should be discovered and kept in metaphorical amber forever.

But you, my friend, are not. Far from a fossil (!). Can’t be sealed with a kiss. For all time.

Maybe you’re like mercury. Amorphous. Dangerous to the touch if you try and force you into shape. Or reach a once-and-for-all understanding of who you are.

Then again, maybe not.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Have you read George Orwell’s…

…quiet horror, 1984? I’ve been putting it off. But this week after being gently shamed by my eldest over a pulp romantasy I’d just started, I decided to bite the proverbial.

And then as if on cue, the universe seemed to reflect what unfolded in the first pages of this iconic work of fiction.

About to cross the road and I pass a student walking my way; earphones in, eyes down, glued to his phone. And before I even have time to eye-roll, the message on his graphic t-shirt sneers… “I’m not interested in your opinion.”

Take a seat on the tram next to a woman trying to crochet a tender little plait out of orange mohair. A thick yellow and blue wool turtleneck hugs her chin. She’s an unmistakable melange of hippy-boho-arty-earth-mama. It’s like I can smell the vegan on her breath when we strike up an impromptu chat about life, motherhood, and the copy of 1984 in my lap. “I’ve read that. I know all the quotes and we’re living it now!”

She describes the movie that was based on it and when I wonder when it was made, she pulls out her phone and in seconds her AI pal is doing her bidding. The irony.

A few hours later I spot an old guy standing on a city corner holding a placard that reads, Break the spell. Free your mind. A cult rules the world. Violence. Corruption. Distraction. Destruction.

Life, art, imitating.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Come walk with me. Look over my… 

…shoulder. Sit inside my thoughts. Notice the fodder that fuels an imagination.

I stepped out of my overheated office one lunchtime this week. A bottle of perfume on my mind. I’m doing the quick city-worker-walk, dodging the motley crew of gawping tourists and brazen pigeons.

As I arrive at Chemist Warehouse a tense scene is unfolding inside. A security guard is in mid hands-free frisk of two teen boys, around 16. I push past, undeterred by the drama – I’ve got olfactories to sate.

Within seconds, the sideshow escalates when the taller teen pushes the security dude almost off his feet. The guard doesn’t flinch. And the teen screams,

“He was making fun of my haircut!”

What’s more shocking? The aggressive shove of an adult man or the dummy spit? Did the guard really mock his coiff?

The teens were soon kicked out and I bought my perfume – after deciding against asking the guard if he really teased the teen’s 80s-style ‘do.

Meanwhile, my ‘scrollstopper’ on an idle FB Marketplace browse was a vintage, rust n’ all egg-beater – yours for $5. The description reads: It was my nan ’s – with a free typo thrown into the batter. And my heart gave a little yelp.

Baked on memories going for a song. Surely the loneliest bargain in town.

Notice everything, friends. You’ll be richer for it. But be warned; you might be moved just a tiny, tiny bit by the sheer, heartrending minutiae of it all.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

‘I hear you’ve had some visa issues.’

These were the first words Sam Neill said to me when we arrived on the set of Dr Zhivago in Prague, circa 2002.

I was going to interview him about ‘an impediment’ we shared – the stutter. And his story would feature in a documentary my partner and I were producing called, Famous Lost Words. 

After months in pre-production, we’d fallen at the last hurdle, literally pre-flight, because of a pesky visa issue and were denied entry into the Czech Republic. So, we flew to Munich instead, praying for divine intervention – or showbiz magic. The latter came to our rescue, in the form of Sam’s unflappable assistant, Maddo.

When I sat down with Sam and the cameras rolled, his candour conquered my jitters (kinda). He spoke openly about the underground of actors who stutter but don’t ‘come out’ to casting agents for fear of losing roles. And he was also philosophical about our bumpy speech.

“It’s just how you are in the world.”    

At the end of our interview, Sam gave me a little bottle of lavender oil from his Two Paddocks farm in New Zealand before we took a walk along the river and snapped photos in front of graffitied walls.

Famous Lost Words has never aired. But maybe one day it will. And when it does, you’ll see the Sam Neill charm in action as he delivers the last word on a ‘condition’ that never hindered his success,

“I love stutterers.” He smiled. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

I’m writing this Phylosophy late…

…on a Friday night after an exhausting week.

My eyelids are heavy. Tonight’s dreams are loading. I can hear my youngest boy blowing his nose for the tenth time – a nightly stall tactic, for my night owl. And after weeks of preferring a sleep-in to 15 paltry, powerful minutes on the yoga mat, my lower back and I are barely on speaking terms. But we’ll kiss and make up over a downward dog in the morning.

I spent the afternoon with my 96-year-old mother. Memories stuttered, felt fluent, then splintered again. She was a child bride. Barely 16. Her first groom, 32. It wasn’t love. I’ve heard this story so many times but today, the age difference disgusted me.

I helped Mum put on a new pair of sandals. Black, soft leather with gold buckles. Hush Puppies. She smiled, delighted, before padding around her tiny living room, a little unsteady on her feet, like a toddler.

I turned the plastic pages of a small photo album she keeps close, my mother’s youthful beauty in an ancient city beamed at us in black and white. On another page is a scrap of cardboard where Mum’s written a poem in black ink for my late father, I search for you everywhere…

 We closed the album.

“Life’s a labyrinth,” she said, her words heavy with a mystery I pretended to understand.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed and mum’s eyes filled.

We hugged. I wanted to hold on forever.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Let’s talk about, outburst.

It’s the act of bursting out of… what?

Social mores? Expectations? Comfort? Solitude? Quiet?

It could also be that quirky little – or large – indefinable, out, where you and I let something we’ve been feeling, free.

Trust me, I’m going somewhere with this. Play along, please.

So. We have public displays of affection where the loved-up insist on performing saliva swaps at bus stops, park benches and more, oh sigh!

But what about just public displays of passion not predicated on bodily fluids or lingering limerence?

People love passionate people – without having to know them; all they need is the knowledge that another human feels enough courage or temerity in their heart to just let rip once-in-a-while. I think this is why shock jocks and mouthy social media types draw so many of us in – we’re seeking ‘the loud’ because tiptoeing on eggshells? Tiring.

Yes. Discernment is key. Not all impassioned folks are worth adoring. And no.

I’m not about to launch onto a soapbox and lash you about the face with my political rhetoric.

Far from it.

By the time you read this I will be sequinned up and down for a superbly unfettered display of passion in an inner-city Sydney pub. The soundtrack thick with funk. The potential for love, large. This will be my first foray into building an outlet for people who love that sweet soul music – the kind that’s crafted to excite, thrill and unite.

It’s time to burst a move, people.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

I’ve just finished a book called…

…Arborescence written by Rhett Davis; an unassuming Australian author who looks like he could be your mild-mannered accountant.

Or the guy who teaches a community college course on whale migration patterns. Basically, unremarkable. But in my opinion, this dude’s a superhero of wild, remarkable, fanciful storytelling.

Rhett’s novel is a compelling, gentle horror about society as we know it breaking down when billions choose to uproot their lives and ‘dig in’ to the earth, so that they may morph slowly, painfully and finally peacefully into… trees. It takes going green to a whole new level.

AI is also a side character in the book, a foil for all the arboreal mayhem. But it’s less ‘artificial intelligence’ and more alternative intelligence where the semi-sentient bots are disembodied bosses who hire and fire at will, using ‘beautiful actors’ as stand-ins for company meetings or new employee interviews.

I also interpreted Arborescence as an extreme antidote to ‘the busy contagion’ that continues to spread in our world; who are you if you’re not moving, doing, achieving, busying your body and mind relentlessly?!

Well. I gotta confess.

As I write this on my bed, sleep taunts me. It’s been a hectic week. Every second drenched with something to do. So.

While I won’t be digging my pinkies into any dirt any time soon, I kinda get the craving to stand still. Just make like a tree and not leave.

Normal, more alert, transmission will resume next week, friends.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

While Madonna was at the height…

…of her faux virgin pop takeover, she was also evangelising about the merits of dance; demanding you bust more than a move.

She flounced around in ripped lace, crucifix-strewn and defiant goading us to get into that groove. And we did, in droves. But not because her dancing was particularly inspired or complex.

Hers were the unpolished, bumps and grinds. They didn’t involve any heart-racing, tricky choreography, just simple, sensual steps that made you feel good doin’ ‘em; a half spin, hop, sometimes a sly skip and soon you were dancing unlike a virgin.

As a teen and early 20-something I bopped to all the pop giants’ hits – from Kiss to Thriller – wanting to dance with somebody… somebody who loved me.

But my moves were small and safe, dainty steps only around that handbag on the dancefloor.

Occasionally I’d sneak in a hip shimmy at a cousin’s 21^st when Erotic City coaxed me outta my shell. Google the lyrics, friends.

“Let the music set you free.” M beckons.

These days I practice what she preaches…

…in my living room wearing sequinned Uggs, Kool & The Gang drowning out any pointless blues, or in a club where I yell beloved purple lyrics off tune, turned on by the groove that beats inside all of us.  

I’d love you to join me on July 3 at Sydney’s Hollywood Hotel for a night of joyful music and dance.

​Come for your soul and stay for the funk.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

If you’re a modern human…

…you’ll seek out strangers, sneak into off-limits areas in hotels and bars, head to a dirty corner in the mall, schmooze a colleague, cut calls with loved ones short, beg, borrow and possibly even steal…

…to charge your phone when the % is terrifyingly too low for comfort.

But can you feel the same zeal for your own energy levels?

I’ve just returned from a ‘mini charge of me’ at a manor in the forest. We’re talking a stately situation hugged by green hills bursting with birdsong and quick-footed rabbits (feral but cute, literal blurs of fur).

My ‘home’ featured a mind-blowingly beautiful, gothic novel ‘great hall’ with a fireplace, the obligatory stuffed stag and a grand piano ‘neath a polished oak staircase. I fell in love with every inch – the peace profound, the setting a turn of the century wet dream.

Soon I was taking more full-bodied breaths than my routine shallow sips in the city. But even though I didn’t have to be anywhere for anyone at any time, I caught myself wondering when would all this ‘down time’ be up?!

In spite of the idyll, it still took me a little bit to settle into … the nothing.

On my last day, I gazed up at the soaring windows and spied a Latin motto, inscribed into the hand painted ribbon that curled around the manor’s crest,  

Nil mortalibus arduum. Nothing is difficult for mortals.

A double meaning if ever there was one?

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Observing is like breathing for me.

I don’t realise I’m doing it.

My writer’s brain is hard wired to suck up countless sights and sounds, make them larger-than-life via intricate descriptions, before flinging ‘em lovingly onto a page or into a conversation.

It’s like walking around with a giant set of multi-sensory antennae on my head, always on, always alive to the world around me and every living thing in it…

…from diamond-like dew on leaves and the pigeon on my ledge who sits still as the rain hammers his head to picking up on people’s mannerisms, words, even their scents and dental work.

I didn’t say it was glamourous. Or relaxing. However, it is endless fascination. But the real fun?

Recollecting it all for… you.

I sat next to a man on the tram this week. He was glued to a Youtube video on his phone which had him in fits of (silent) giggles – his body jiggling beside me. Annoying and kinda charming too.

I live in an apartment flanked by stables, lemon trees and a horseracing track, minutes from a giant park. It’s extreme glamping in my view, owing to the various creatures that enjoy the occasional (uninvited) sleepover in my home – spiders, ants, beetles and snails.

It sounds more national geographic than it really is.

Yesterday afternoon, the glass sliding doors in my living room hosted a little latte-coloured moth. She rested flat against the clean pane, her delicate diaphanous wings like living lace.

‘Wow,’ I breathed.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026