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There are certain humans…

…in life you must love with ferocity because… even though they may fumble at first, surprised and bleary eyed as they reach for their ringing phone in the wee hours, they’re still going to answer when you are calling them.

These are your 3am people, the special folks who would readily take an ungodly hour phone call from you – even if they’re mid-REM.

I treasure these men and women – the few, the far between.

The older I get the more conscious I am that my friend circle doesn’t need to be so big it warrants a postcode.

In the last ten years, friendships have soured, distance has taken a couple bonds hostage while some other pals just changed their minds about me and severed ties – without explanation; this mystery hurts more than name-calling. And while the sting of silent rejection smarts, ultimately, time has done its thing and only a faint scar remains. 

Reflecting on the people who have actively shut me out of their lives is scary enough; the questions come… am I a bad person? A bitch? Too self-involved? But writing this all down is terrifying. Now the unanswered questions that trip me up now and then, are free to taunt me in these paragraphs.

Still. The passage of years comforts and writing soothes. 

As for my 3am folks. I hold them steadfast to my heart and I’m loyal to the last. So, I keep the phone by my bed every night, ringer on.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Popular culture has been…

…rather pummelled lately with a withering new romantasy that reflects the height of toxic coupling. Or painfully obvious moor porn.

The planet’s entertainment outlets have come over all hot and bothered too.

Thing is, I love me a silver screen lust romp or two, but when the flick in question dresses up co-dependence, obsession, violence and abuse in peasant blouses, velvet coats and snappy, breathless dialogue, “I can follow you like a dog to the end of the world.” I lose interest.

“But it’s only a movie!” 

Well maybe. Perhaps it’s just me who gets more than a little uneasy when Hollywood makes freakishly photogenic humans the poster people for dysfunctional pairings.

As cameras flashed and fans drooled, the stars of the movie were grilled at the recent Sydney premier. 

“Did you feel a sense of responsibility not to present (the movie) like couple goals?”
And here are the direct quotes as they rode a red carpet high…

“(Love) isn’t all rainbows and sunshine and beautiful things. There’s something very sweet and wretched about their relationship. Love is this multi-faceted thing. It’s beautiful and it’s awful. We need to teach everyone about all the different colours of love.” 

No. We need to stop asking movie stars, dazzled by fat contracts and spotlights, for reality checks. Trying to understand quite how these fragrant folks justify problematic characters and storylines is impossible when they’re trapped by their own fever dream. 

Pass me the paracetamol – and an iced drink.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

I’ll never ever…

…fall out of love with writers.

The storyteller who can spin a yarn at pace. Sentences are clean. Nothin’ fancy. It’s just wham, bam, I want you to keep reading, ma’am. Their words aren’t meant to inspire, just thrill with spills and rollercoaster plotlines.

The wordsmith who flirts with wanky wordplay. But the turns of phrase are so delicious, you forgive them a five-paragraph description of a dried-up-leaf-that-crunches-and-cracks-like-dying-burnt-orange-embers-on-the petrified-ground.

The scribe who teases your grey matter and fills your heart while they throw you into labyrinthian plots, riddled with twists. Their real skill lies in how they can guide us out of rabbit holes so that we emerge blinking into the light of… a new page.

I’ll never fall out of love with writing. 

He sits opposite me, whispering on his phone, a hint of handlebar moustache on his upper lip. “Please tell me you’re going to do it.” He urges. A woman hunches in a shop doorway, sucking on a cigarette. A chiselled Clark Kent type spots her as he rushes past, a sour look lasts a nanosecond on his face. In the café an office worker sits with rolled up sleeves, eyes trained on his screen and sushi. The word free is tattooed on his arm. The letters ‘dom’ are only outlined.

I spot a marriage proposal scrawled in black marker on a cardboard scrap. The invitation to ‘do forever’ is attached to a bollard at a busy intersection in the city – signed, Anon.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

The online world…

…continues to burst at the screens (!) with armies of keyboard warriors, occasional chair politicians, desktop record execs, garage gym rat gurus, backyard botox experts, naval-gazing peace advocates.

Everyone’s vying for airtime and comment domination. 

Who can spout the wittiest, dumbest, most divisive, educated, ignorant, positive, love-stuffed, venomous blah blah on a post, video or story? Frankly, I envy their energy because I just can’t be bothered groping for the attention of scrollers looking for a fight.

Though I must confess… the comments section is a must-read for me if the post is particularly beautiful or inflammatory, topical or gossipy; what does the faceless populace think? In some cases, public opinion is the real barometer of truth. Unless it’s just swill in pixels and then you must flick past the glut of grandstanders, fast.

This week, as unreal protest scenes spilled onto Sydney streets, hotheads mingled with thinkers, cameras caught performances mixed with real pain and I wondered… could this be what online vitriol might look like IRL?

Folks walk into a peaceful space where polite discourse should live but then someone says or does something dumb and dissent steps in to mess stuff up.

Passion is hijacked by rage.

Intelligence is swapped for insults. Brawn pummels brain. 

But where’s all this indignation going? Sure, the noise might make us smirk, think or even recoil – but the operative word here is, might.

The lines are blurred when a mouse-click is now the mouthpiece for cowards and heroes.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

In case you missed…

…the tits and tatts fest that was the 2026 Grammy Awards, allow me to enlighten you. But first, full disclosure… 

I’m writing this Phylosophy after a ridiculously long day so my filter has gone to bed together with any inclination I may have to go easy on the clowns masquerading as musical artists these days. 

Let’s begin. 

After a red carpet riddled with flashes of flesh that made Cher’s diaphanous Oscar fashions look like an Amish convention, the ceremony was underway. And the brief? Leave your undies at home, folks. Bieber warbled in his boxers. Bras were burnt in favour of prosthetic nipple piercings. It was one eyewatering look after another.

But I get it. To revisit the days of more class than crass, you’d need a time machine. 

Still, at least Lauryn Hill and her gifted pals blessed the evening and took us all to church with her stunning tribute to giants, D’Angelo, Angie Stone and Roberta Flack. 

Now, let’s get back to the iconic time turner that is, Cher – and her infamous faux pas when she announced the late, great Luther Vandross as the winner of Record of the Year. By the way, she actually said, ‘Grandross’. But I digress… 

So, yes fine. It was Kendrick Lamar’s award, but Luther’s golden vocals fuelled the hit and stole the show, no bare boobs and f-bombs required – just an ageless legend who was the first woman to show her bellybutton on TV once upon a time.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

When the eyes of the world…

…are not fixed on you, your actions, even your grin – apparently this is when you move closer to the real you.

It’s quite the concept and possibly comforting if you’re at peace with what stands out in the solitude.

But, if you’re not?

She looked like a rough sleeper. Perched on a grimy bench. Restless energy. An ill-fitting dress. No shoes. And I only caught a glimpse as the light rail I was riding zipped past her scene-making.

And she was absolutely the star of a scene I couldn’t ignore. 

Her fingers were flying over an imaginary keyboard. Typing. Typing. In fury. Frustration. Her accidental mime so descriptive, I could tell just by the way her hands sliced through the air, that she was forcing a typewriter’s carriage right and left, right and left, left, left!

Were the words not coming? Her thoughts tormenting?

It was a painfully fascinating tableau, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her in the few seconds it took for my tram to coast by.

She was lost in her own world. Oblivious to life unfolding. In her mind, no one was watching because she was totally alone…

Trapped in the cliché of writing a masterwork in a cabin somewhere? The supernatural satisfaction of art completed, eluding her? Was she was battling her muse, her mania or both?

Maybe the question isn’t, who are you when no one is watching, but…

Who are you when you are not seen?

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

For over 50 years…

…the Sydney Opera House has hosted folks who have brought indescribable magic to our planet.

Prince bewitched the ivories like a purple-cloaked wiz during his last ever Aussie tour. Dame Joan Sutherland flooded the Concert Hall with her supernatural trills. A Pope. A Dylan. A Mandela. Titans of spirit and art brought their messages of love, hope and beauty to this legendary place.

But on March 8, ugly will descend on the House.

Those famous Sails are set to be sullied by speakers spouting performative vitriol designed to divide, agitate and tar all men on Earth with the same grubby brush.

The Feminist Festival is returning for its 14^th year of shock value rhetoric.

Billed as ‘…15+ thought-provoking conversations and events’, the Festival will explore the ‘issues that matter to women and their allies.’

Lovely. Let’s keep fuelling the battle, ladies, because that’s what the world needs now. More sensationalised blah starved of nuance.

One of the talks will focus on raising boys to avoid Andrew Tate-ish rabbit holes – assuming that all our sons are gullible alt-right-leaning zombies. Another event, Heterofatalism, will highlight the ‘rising belief that heterosexual relationships are flawed’ and ‘blow the lid off the embarrassment of boyfriends’.

Steering this chat will be a writer who boasts about sucking the oxygen out of any room she’s in and an academic who pens op eds titled, Boyfriends are cringe.

We’re in a crisis.

Our sons and brothers are being bombarded with an unrelenting narrative that paints them all as ineffectual, incompetent, embarrassing, predatory misogynists.

It’s a disturbing sideshow of inequality. And tickets are selling fast.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Scribes and their word swords…

…are quite the feared species these days. Actually, scratch that. Writers, with a ferocity of courage and views to match, have always struck fear in the hearts of folks allergic to truth-telling – or divisive rhetoric.

Whether it’s spitting facts or disrupting ‘em, it’s a wordsmith’s obligation to tell it like it is – or, at the very least, how they may want it to be.

This week a writers festival flopped after 180 writers called bullsh**t on the decision to oust a fellow author from the event because of her views. The BBC summarises the festival implosion beautifully here.

But this Phylosophy isn’t about delving into the politics behind the writer’s clumsy removal or the subsequent quasi-apology that she received along with an invitation to attend the 2027 Festival instead (!). 

The focus here is on what the festival fracas did so well. In just a matter of days it managed to detonate an entire echo chamber of small minds who had the temerity to believe they were better, smarter, wiser than a bunch of storytellers, basically.

I have intentionally left out the name of the author and festival here. Not because I want to be mysterious. If you know anything about Australian current affairs, you’ll know who and what I’m talking about. 

I’ve stripped back the details to reveal how unreal the whole thing was; 

A high-profile arts festival kicks out a writer because they didn’t agree with her views.

This should’ve been fiction not non.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Apparently, I don’t.

Or at least that’s what our mates at Meta would have you believe.

Today I discovered that my accounts on Instagram and FB have been suspended. What?! Did the Geek Gods decide to save me from my scrolling sins in favour of more worthwhile pursuits IRL?

Um, no. These e-deities don’t trade in altruism, my friends. In fact, the reasons they gave for pausing my access to digital slop was something so alien to who I am and what I share online it concerned me – for 90 seconds.

A quick call to my very wise social media manager friend revealed the (somewhat) startling truth… 

An army of AI web crawlers are waging war on unpalatable / illegal / abusive content. But the busy bots just aren’t big on nuance. It’s just slash and burn, baby.

Oh no. What to do?? Nobody wants their scrolling thumbs put on ice while their feeds are assessed and, all digits crossed, approved!

But never fear, algospeak is here.

For those of you who don’t know (or care), this is a self-censorship method which essentially assassinates the English language for the sake of ‘free speech’. And, as a result, it’s spawned gems like s3x, 4buse, nip nops and pew-pew – which refers to guns not bad smells. Who knew?

I guess we should all breathe a sigh of relief and be grateful that our tech bro overlords are out to get those online bad guys!

Either that or our privacy is officially… forked.

© Phyllis Foundis 2026

Take a deep breath,

2026 has arrived – fresh with no mistakes in it.

Those last six words are borrowed from that iconic, innocent tome, Anne of Green Gables penned by L.M. Montgomery.

Then again… To err is human, to forgive divine according to poet, Alexander Pope.

So, what to do? Strut into the year with hope and starry-eyed optimism? Or accept that mere mortality is part of your earthbound contract and forgive yourself before January gets too old.

I’m choosing both – with an emphasis on being kinder to me. As the days inched closer to December 31, I pushed myself to tick off to-dos and wipe some imaginary slate clean so I could hit ’26 all gung-ho as the final firework studded Sydney’s midnight sky. Poetic sure, but ultimately an impotent strike for perfection.

So, I gave up on the lists and pressure for neat and tidy and let myself off the hook, rejecting all the ra-ra motivational talk of the season.

The antidote? Reading some of the most unassuming words ever written from the Pulitzer prize-winning pen of Mary Oliver in her book, Long Life.

“Here you are alive. Would you like to make a comment?”

The arresting simplicity of these tiny sentences is breathtaking – and even a little heartbreaking too. But I think they complement this year of the Fire Horse beautifully without any effort at all.

Befriend the present. Let those leftovers from 2025 go and harness the momentum this steed has come to ignite.

Let’s go. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2026