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Tomorrow a titan of music...

…would have turned 67 years old. This man’s monikers are as varied as the paradigm-shattering hits he churned out for decades.

Also known as the Kid, Christopher Tracy and, The Artist Formerly Known as…

Prince’s mythology inspired a delirious fascination for his life. And recently, it looked like we were going to see the detonation of his curated image in The Book of Prince – a nine-hour Netflix series by Oscar winner Ezra Edelman.

“Everything you believe Prince was, is in this movie. You get to bathe in his genius… and confront his humanity.”

But the Estate didn’t love that last pesky bit so they cancelled the series.

Susan Rogers spent five sleepless years at Prince’s behest in the studio, crafting the electrifying aural experiences that became Purple Rain, Parade and more.

“If you want to know Prince – listen to his music,” she said.

Romantic? And God Created Woman. Religious? I Would Die 4 U. Narcissist? If I was your Girlfriend – where he wants to bathe and dress you, inflict pain and comfort you.

The late, great Greek soprano, Maria Callas, said,

“I’ve written my memoirs. They’re in the music I interpret.”

Should we just let dead artists be and rely on their art for insight? It might be more immune to fading recollections, conjecture and axes to grind.

Still, if Netflix reneges and releases The Book of Prince, I’ll be watching because nothing compares to stories about supernovas who left this world a better place.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Aside from countless comments...

…by strangers about my likeness to Liza Minnelli, I’m confident there’s only one Phyllis Foundis in this world. And, by association, my creative DNA is unique too, right?

Well. 

It was late and my phone blinked with a message from a beautiful friend.

Let’s call her Melissa.

For a quick giggle, Mel had fed an AI bot my Phylosophy asking it to write something on designer handbags in my style.

It took the bot 0.01 seconds to (kinda) replicate my tone. My heart sank. 

Writing is a huge part of who I am and how I make sense of life’s chaos and charm. So, to see my style (somewhat) replicated was disturbing.

Writing saves me repeatedly when my emotional endurance is tested. And while I always do my best to stay afloat, it’s my words that do the heavy lifting.

I write, therefore I am. 

So, if tech can spit out writing that’s taken me decades to perfect, what’s the fu**ing point? 

“AI could never, ever replace you.” Mel wrote and then she unsent the copycat AI blog.

But I’m glad she sent it.

I started thinking about anyone who identifies deeply with the things they make and contribute to humanity. How much art and heart will we lose to AI when artists can’t recover after seeing their originality decimated by an algorithm?

The stakes are higher than we think. And we trivialise the impact fake tech will have on the world’s soul at our peril.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

For the love of soul...

…can we please keep AI’s indiscriminate, sticky, techy tentacles off the Creative Arts?!

Sure, a futile request. But an artist can dream – and therein lies our unfu**able, power.

I’ve just watched arguably one of the most articulate, passionate and ridiculously witty diatribes on the inadequacies of AI by Tim Minchin, a legendary Aussie court jester of stage and screen. For more details on this talented dude with the smudged eyeliner and iconic rock star locks, get thee to Google.

Tim used his acceptance speech at this year’s Gday USA event to share his unfiltered thoughts on the tech that cannibalises originality and vomits it back up, calling it – art.

Aside from the stunningly intelligent way Tim detonates the bots that are taking over our ability to think for ourselves, feel and create for ourselves, his speech made a heartfelt pitch for authentic, messy, beautiful human expression.

There’s profound divinity in our flaws.

Here’s my prediction for our brave new world even as bloated AI bots, jacked up on the world’s knowledge, roam…

The meek shall inherit the Earth? No. The geeks shall inherit the Earth? Also, no.

The freaks shall inherit the Earth.

Those with noses deep in books, not screens. The free thinkers staring into space not pixels, admiring blue skies, not smiles preening for your feed.

The clue is in the name – artificial intelligence. And last time I checked there’s no place in art for fakes.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Over the next few weeks...

…you’ll see me talkin’ up a storm on a special kinda soup that’s close to my heart and at the centre of my DNA.

Here’s an extract from said, ‘storm’ and my soon-to-be-published op-ed… 

“I scoff at the term, Sandwich Generation*.

When I think of sandwiches, I imagine high tea at the Ritz with sliced cucumbers and tiny cupcakes. I understand the reason behind this descriptor but I gotta say, combining the care of an elderly parent with teenage-boy-rearing never feels like a sandwich, it’s a soup; an often unpalatable, chunky, messy soup.

I juggle work, a radio-hosting role, freelance speaking, writing and film gigs plus the co-parenting of my beautiful 15 and 18-year-old sons. And since my beloved father passed in 2011, I’ve also taken up the mantle of being my 94-year-old mother’s primary caregiver.

A typical hour in my day goes something like this… FaceTime calls from Mum complaining about an ache or relative, reminders for me to eat, check up on her meds delivery, make a haircut appointment, helping my 15-year-old with a 1,800 word essay due yesterday, Googling how to parent 18-year-olds in challenging relationships, texting my boys’ father (insert urgent adulting to-do here)… rushing to get off Mum’s call for a Teams meeting with colleagues dealing with dumb clients and deadlines.
Ya, still with me?!”

I shared this today because my ‘Soup’ has been a tad (a lot) overwhelming lately which rendered my writer’s voice (temporarily) mute. 

Until next week…

* Middle-aged adults who care for both ageing parents and their own children.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

I love my lotions and potions...

…so I’m on a couple of databases that hawk said salves. Last week one sent this:

“… we understand that Mothers’ Day can be difficult… If you’d rather we didn’t send you emails containing Mother’s Day-related content, please click, ‘opt-out’.”

And society continues to wrap up folks in cotton wool for fear of… oh yeah, that’s right, feeling.

I’m not lampooning anyone’s grief. But this feels like enabling a stance that keeps people stumbling through life scattering eggshells like brittle petals in their wake.

There’s not a human alive who isn’t nursing a wound. I think about my late father everyday but will I opt-out of an email to assuage my pain? I process my grief my way and faceless brands don’t need to tiptoe around me while I’m doing it.

You may know the serum I use, but you don’t know me. So, quit the crap. You sell stuff not emotional support.

It’s yet another example of handing our power to something outside of ourselves.

Please spare our feelings Big Brand. Clearly, we’re incapable of looking away when we see triggering ads or emails.

At what point do we take responsibility? To walk our own path, confident that we can carry on even when the inevitable log trips us up. It’s like going on a hike with someone running up ahead clearing our way for a smoother journey.

That’s not real life. It’s a movie set.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

“When someone shows you...

…who they are believe them, the first time.”

I adore this quote by the mighty Maya Angelou. It’s her signature ‘how-to’ on choosing healthy connections that have your best interests at heart.

The operative word being, heart.

I’ve been a hopeful romantic since the beginning of time – give or take a few lives. My belief in ‘happily ever after’ is steel-clad but, stupid humans have occasionally stained this. Still, I’m hopeful.

I’ve fallen for the ‘potential’ in paramours – not the reality. How gorgeous, sexy, witty, flirty, you are! And then… inconsistency, ghosting, apathy… throw in some gaslighting, manipulation and narcissism and I’ve got myself a lesson – not love. Unfortunately, sometimes I’ve had to repeat the class!

The truth is, we’re horrible liars. But it’s not our words or actions that communicate who we truly are to the world – since these can be embellished and performed consistently but… patterns?

If people show you who they are once, twice, thrice – it’s a pattern that can’t be faked.

As well as knowing why the caged bird sang, Maya understood human nature so her quote is explosive in its power to transform the way you love and let people in.

It’s not about instinct or following your gut. There’s no detective work required.

Believe in what a person reveals to you the first time simply because…

“… they know themselves better than you do.”

It’s Maya’s philosophy and mine too. I just need to follow it more.

What about you?

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Don’t know what emotional alchemy...

…fires up with ageing that makes you seek meaning (and comfort) in nature. 

I’ve never been a camp-under-the-stars kinda gal. Sure, the sparkles overhead would be glorious. But, the bugs? The mud? The things that go screech, grunt and hoot in the night? Not for me. 

And yet, Mother Nature, even when flanked by concrete, can beguile me to distraction. 

My window at work boasts sweeping views of a carpark and a lone tree I’ve named Jazz Hands because, on breezy days its little leaves perform for me. But it’s less soft shoe shuffle and more earnest flutter, in time and in unison.

Sometimes, when they catch the light, I imagine the leaves as little green sequins, shimmering this way and that –– the most unlikely meditative vista in town. 

But what on earth can a city tree near a grimy carpark teach me?

This week, bursts of unforgiving torrential rain drenched my view. While people sprinted for cover, my Jazz Hands tree was unmoved. Only its leaves, nature’s sequins, flickered up a storm as the rain pelted down. Their shimmer stubborn, relentless –– because the show must go on, right?  

It’s true. I’m a seeker for meaning. And probably a sucker too. But to me, the leaves were not drowning, just waving –– shining on, in spite of the storm. 

A twee reflection, sure. But, so what? We all need reminders of our souls’ wattage when the clouds roll in.  

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

I’m talking, tattling. Dishing the dirt. 

Spilling tea and beans. Yes, messy – but necessary.

Many millennia ago, gossip was simply fireside storytelling – for warmth, connection, for show. My Hellenic Ancestor, Homer, kickstarted the trend. This dude’s Illiad is history’s biggest, fattest tea spill about the bitching that ripped through Greece post-Trojan war; love, sibling rivalry, control, pissed off parents – a typical Friday night in my childhood.

I grew up among gossip; a cloying, annoying oft-repeated round of she said, he saids. Add the nausea of regurgitating old gripes and …

Little did I know this was building my story muscle.

Gossip inspired my first recorded ‘talk show’ – Phyllis’ Opinions to Family Problems (sic). I was 12 and my grandmother, my (reluctant) guest.

Decades later a famous screenwriting teacher shared this priceless gem with me,

“Gossips make great storytellers.” Was this permission or, validation?

George Harrison scolded, “Gossip is the devil’s radio.”

Truman Capote fired back, “All literature is gossip.”

But US columnist Liz Smith, (aka The Grand Dame of Dish) dropped the mic,

“Gossip is just news running ahead of itself in a red, satin dress.”

Like stories, gossip isn’t going away. So, get good at it. Choose vital facts, over vitriol. Tell the truth, not tales. The purest form isn’t about belittling behind backs. It’s your ancient instinct to connect, share, entertain, love and be loved.

Am I an advocate for gossip? Sure, if it does good and feels good.

And forget about the red, satin dress – mine’s, silk.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Who’s your guru? 

Who are you outsourcing the getting of your wisdom to? And, crucially, why?

I was at a yoga retreat recently and on day two we were told a Yogi was gracing us with her ‘unfiltered presence’. And then there she was….

A silver-haired crone with a hook nose, broken leg and a demeanour that snap crackled with humour, nous and zero f**ks.

“You are what you worship.”

“Being yourself is the most liberating thing you can be.”

Then she gleefully regaled us with technicolour tales from her rock star yogi life… luscious affairs with younger men, the natural altered states 4,000 hours of meditation can bring and that one time a bendy friend popped a line of coke under her nose while she was doing a headstand.

Her cavalier attitude to perfection, intoxicating. Her truth bombs, sublime.

“Our only duty is to become transparent.”

The influencer types around me nodded in earnest, absorbing the gospel. But the night before they were sharing their unresolved traumas (while their websites hawked $1,000 coaching sessions on mastering your power).

Wanna really harness your fire? Ignore the gurus. They’re unlikely to give you their warts n’ all wisdom like this Yogi,

“Life is your guru.” She said before describing her prolapsed bladder and the plug she used to keep it in. The chick beside me asked her what the plug was made of, and the Yogi didn’t miss a beat,

“I’ve got no idea. But it’s not made of wheatgrass.”

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Adolescence is the latest TV show… 

…that’s scorched column inches everywhere.

Technically, the series is flawless… from a soundtrack that includes the haunting reimagining of Sting’s, Fragile to the way each episode unfolds as a single continuous shot, dragging you into the family’s nightmare – without respite. And the performances? Well, now you’re a voyeur with a front row seat to all the terror.

From a parent’s perspective, it’s bile churning stuff. All the superlatives are deserved… ‘outstanding, exceptional, groundbreaking’. And for the detractors who criticise the slow pace – please, stop. Not all stories need to pelt you with guts and action to pin you to an armchair.

I’m clearly waxing lyrical here, so what’s my problem?

One word, nuance. Or the lack thereof.

Yes, Adolescence does a stunning job of demonising the boy and his ‘toxic masculinity’, but the victim’s toxic femininity was glossed over in a fleeting line or two. Why? Are we assuming she was completely blameless? Is victim consciousness rearing her ugly head again?

No, she didn’t deserve her fate. But neither did he.

I’m glad some of the series’ editorial has contained phrases like,

“…the topics raised in the show are not just a conversation for men and boys.”

I don’t know. Why can’t we reframe the narrative that seems to consistently batter males into submission like they are the only villains of the piece?

Call me a dreamer. I just think that equality is the tonic, toxic needs.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025