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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

When you’re reading for escape…

…a deep breath, or when the work commute is unbearably stuffed full of students, tourists, suits and even the odd ex-con who casually announces beside you, “…yeah, I’ve been out for a year and a half.” 

When you’re reading, do you seek acres of description? Do you crave detailed details, on every little thing? The way someone sits on a toilet with a bowl so deep, their pee splashes loudly? (this is a real line I just read in a hysterically successful new novel.)

These tiniest of tiny details are often banal and yet the work still becomes a page-turning hit in spite of this – or because of it.

Maybe we just adore sitting on the protagonist’s shoulder – seeing what they’re seeing, loving who they’re loving, er, peeing how they’re peeing?

I guess some of us really wanna be held by the author’s imagination in every way. To be twirled around by their turns of phrase. They’ve gotta be romanced before they can commit to the story.

Well, lately I’ve wanted to be wooed by the success stories I catch in glowing book reviews and interviews with these celebrated scribes.

Wow… their latest bestseller has conquered online fandom and traditional literary circles, it’s critically acclaimed, beloved, an undiluted, non-stop, ever-lovin’ clear word-of-mouth success – oh my!

The stab of envy makes it mark on me. So, why do this? Why? When the pathway out of this self-flagellating kaka is so simple.

Romance myself instead. And. Write.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

This morning I woke up…

…channelling arsonist energy.

What a weird, but alarmingly welcome combo of words. And they just dropped into my thoughts – unbidden. No foul mood was at fault. I opened my eyes, went about my daily ablutions and there it was.

A fully formed phrase in my head that felt good to think. 

Arsonist. Energy.

Far from literally striking a giant match and watching your physical world smoke and smoulder, this is about setting metaphorical fire to the stuff that keeps you stuck in life; attitudes, expectations, relationships, fears, even old careers that, while still coughing up cash for you, are really on life support begging you to… Let. Them. Go.

Still.

Fire starting ain’t for the fainthearted. It’s hot to the touch. Can quickly spiral out of control. Ha. And there it is. While throwing caution to the wind and speaking your mind, changing jobs, flirting with someone new, is a fabulously flammable tactic – sometimes it’s easier, safer to keep your cool. 

I’m not sure how far to extend this metaphor. All I know is that when a completely random collection of words shows up in my head outta nowhere, I reflect, taking care not to toss my attention on that big ol’ pyre too.

Maybe right now it’s enough for me – and you – to just play with the idea of fire. And imagine what we would happily incinerate if given half the chance – and courage.  

Let’s confess and then let it all burn, baby, burn.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Everyone I’ve ever met, worked with

…loved, kissed and even given birth to often feels like a character I would relish throwing onto a page, in a play, on a screen.

In fact, I’ve probably studied you, listened to the way you speak, the stories you tell and maybe even the way you smile … only to drop you in a plot that might just reflect life’s mechanics back to me, to us.  

And when I’m not daydreaming about holding my beloveds forever in a sentence? I salivate over strangers…

This week my highlight reel is brought to you by the low hanging vegetables also known as phone zombies.  

In a luxe department store on Mother’s Day, I spy a father and his little girl. She sits in her pram big blue eyes alert to a world she’s just getting to know. Meanwhile, daddy scrolls, bopping his head occasionally to the non-descript store soundtrack.

Outside a crowded café, a young couple walks by, pushing a pram. They’re dressed to within an inch of their credit cards in designer garb, carrying large designer bags. Suddenly their toddler screams; she’s dropped her dummy – popularly referred to as a smartphone.

The mother springs into action, scoops up the tech and begins to, what can only be described as, cradle the device as if it were a mewling newborn, while her actual baby looks on confused.

I can judge. Admire. Learn and be inspired by the people I watch everyday.

It’s character building. Literally.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Frittering away time gets a bad rap.

Even the word frittering gives just the right amount of ‘reductive’ when used to describe blowing off those precious hours, minutes, tick, Tok, tick.

It’s a flimsy-looking phrase too. Toothless, without much substance. And I know I’m going to come off all ‘back in my day’ now, but maybe this f-word refers to the fools who eyeball tech until their retinas run dry, blindly tossing away time on gaming and its sleazy cousin, digital slop. Day in. Day out.

I’m unapologetically critical here, ‘cause ya know what?

There’s wasting time and then there’s artful squandering. Slothful reflection. Languid stretches of lazy stuffed with introspection and meaning, maybe.

I refer of course to the immortal, soulful gentleman who made wasting time famous; that patron saint of idling, Mr Otis Redding who turned sitting on the dock into a meditation – catching mornin’ rays until the evenin’ came, watching ships roll in and then out again; a static adventure underscored by longing, perhaps?

Sometimes I wonder what the hell we’re all pushing and striving for.

Have you ever thought that life’s real juice might just be found in the longing – and not the doing? Could active stillness be a powerful, deceptively quiet f***
you to grand goals and the unrelenting 21^st century pressure to be productive?

Look at that. I’ve just spent some time on a quiet and cold Saturday night in Sydney, writing a couple hundred words on doing nothing.

What a waste. Or not.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Let your mind wander. 

It’s good for you. Good for others. 

It can be liberating. Aimless. And all manner of WTF. And yet, every last jellied-ounce of firing neuron is necessary.

Sure. Zipping off to a random thought may not be on par with boarding a plane and travelling to exotic climes stuffed with sun and sweet strangers but…

…morning rush hour and as I hurry I hear a rhythmic tap-tap behind me. I turn to see a man in a suit. He charges past, his polished lace-ups the source of the tap-tap. As he walks away, I wonder what business he has wearing soft shoe shuffle footwear. And then I imagine him breaking into a spontaneous two-step for loose change and lazy applause.

…the homeless woman squats demurely surrounded by bags, mostly plastic except for one from a high-end store – in pristine condition. My musings fire up. Did someone treat her to a designer scarf in lieu of a sandwich?

…the tram’s packed with the usual tech addicts. One lady with a long face catches my eye, her expression downtrodden. What’s up, ma’am? She looks like a smile hasn’t warmed her cheeks since 1987.

When it’s my stop, I collect my thoughts and as if on auto pilot, I hand her the unseasonal frangipani I carry, “Have a lovely day,” I say. And you’ve never seen such delight on a human so early on a stupidly run-of-the-mill morning commute.

“Thank you!” she replies and her face springs to life.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

…maybe you’ve felt a few drops.

Ten years ago this week, the planet lost a gigantic talent. Whether you loved him or not, Prince revolutionised an industry persistently drunk on homogeny.   

Over the years I’ve stared slack-jawed at his mastery of on-stage flirtation, urgent guitar licks and intimate banter with adoring crowds creaming for more. Unguarded in a sound check, somewhere in Japan, a sprawling, empty stadium at his feet, Prince teases those ivories into a time-stopping rendition of Gershwin’s, Summertime – casually snapping gum like a sexy, cocky Mozart with messy hair.   

In the days after he died, I fell down a purple rabbit hole of countless videos, articles and genre-defying albums. It wasn’t long before I time-travelled to… me as a teen up late watching Under the Cherry Moon, fantasising that Prince would deflower me in a candle-lit cave not Kristin Scott Thomas. Fast forward to early 2016 and I’m leaping three feet into the air, tickets to his final Sydney concert, Piano and a Microphone mine, all mine!  

He died so young. So brilliant. So what? Why do we grieve for famous strangers?

When my beautiful father passed away in 2011, the grief was acute and it continues, unabated 14 years on. Shedding oceans of tears for Dad, is acceptable.

But sobbing for an elusive superstar?

Maybe when our beloveds die we mourn the parts of us that could only breathe when they did. And then we realise anew that the ‘…electric word, life’ never means forever. Ever.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026