Melanie Anne Phillips

Here are some generalizations I worked up during our early development of the Mental Relativity Theory.

Quite simply, we all want to be loved for who we are. But each and every one of us is so afraid of being rejected for our true self that we create a "pseudo-self", a surrogate peronality that we send out ahead of the real us to test the waters. We make this ersatz person similar enough to ourselves to gather data about how safe is the social climate, but dissimilar enough that if it is rejected we don't feel as if we have been rejected. Just like the Mars Pathfinder mission, the rover goes where humans are yet unable to tread. The problem is that while this works fine for everyday use such as in the business place or with casual friends, True Love can only occur when the unspoken essential qualities of one person line up the those same qualities in another. Alas, those are the exact same qualities we consider the essence of our "selves", so they are the very ones we hide to avoid rejection of the real "us". We can be happy in life without exposing our

Words to an old song I wrote in the 1970s. The Hermit Here's to his mouth, and here's to his nose. And here's to the fungus, that lives between his toes. And here's to his welts, and here's to his bites: the ticks on his skin, and his hair full of mites. For he is a hermit, (and I don't mean "crab"): he lives in a cave, that's awfully drab. And when night has fallen, and everyone's asleep, he'll skulk down his mountain, and into town he'll creep. And then he'll grab a virgin, and pull her by the hair, right back up his mountain, where he will strip her bare. And then he will attack her, and cut her into pieces, so beware for your wife,and beware for her life, and your sisters and daughters and nieces.

Words to a song I wrote years ago: The Family Jail Your mother picks your clothes, your father picks your nose, your sister picks your friends: Family prison never ends. So you say you turned eighteen, and your best friend is a queen. You wish he still was Ralph, But how you'd like to find yourself. Stronger personalities, they bury you alive, where the air is thin and stale. You've got to make a move in order to survive, and escape from family jail. Put a bullet through your head, but they win if you are dead. In life there's so much more, if you just walk out the door. Stronger personalities, they bury you alive, where the air is thin and stale. You've got to make a move in order to survive, and escape from family jail.

Words to a song I wrote years ago: Rose's House Something alerts me, and I raise the shade: Someone is going down to Rose's house. And this disturbs me, 'cause I thought I had it made: Someone is going down to Rose's house. Laughter and shadows, fill me with dismay: Something is going down at Rose's house. But I feel left out, and I want to play: Something is going down at Rose's house. I look through her mirror ,and she has no shame: Someone is going down at Rose's house. I try to close my eyes, but I look the same: Someone is going down at Rose's house.

A short poem by moi Newtonian Physics So I fell to the floor and then started to laugh, realized answers won't stick to a graph, when suddenly wisdom descended on me: the man who knows nothing is free! Well , hey, you know, I'd like to know why, Newtonian Physics, it seems to apply, yet all of the teachings of Goete and Hume, Always spell nothing but doom.

Words to another song I wrote years ago. Morning Gold Morning Gold was special to me, and I'm told she was something to see. Bought and sold, she could never be free: Morning Gold is better off dead. Once a week, she'd have me for tea. Cheek to cheek, we were close as can be. Scared to speak, I got down on my knee: Morning Gold is better off dead. All she ever wanted was a place to call her own, knitting while she's sitting by the fire. All she ever needed was a voice across the phone, but she kept getting hung-up on the wire. She said, "No!", but I told her she should. She said, "Go!", but I stayed where I stood. And, you know, just like "Norwegian Wood", Morning Gold is better off....

It’s November 29, 1994 Just about noon. A little past noon. Thought for today: dealing with duration of an event, or duration of an activity as the principal female means of measurement. When you look at how long something takes to be accomplished - how long it lasts - everyone is aware of these. It seems to be intrinsic in the nature of women, which is why time locks don’t have much meaning to the female perspective in terms of emapthy. It’s not a certain fixed, objective sense of time, but how long it “seems” that’s important. When you deal with an option lock (because you are limited in your options) the longer the problem lasts - the more duration it has - the more it irritates, much as if you take your finger nail and start scratching away at your skin: the longer you do it, the more irritated it will become. Or, if you stay out in the sun and get a sunburn, the longer you are there the worse the burn will be. Eventually, it gets irritating to the point you can’t stand it a

Words to another song I wrote years ago... Times were tough, and people were lazy. Things got rough, and they say he got crazy. Or at least that is the story, that I'm authorized to tell. But I'm sick of propaganda, and I'm not afraid of hell. The path he walked, it brought him no pleasure. But he laughed and talked, of spiritual treasure. And he went to find the answer, that no one ever does. While others had forgotten, just what the question was. Kings and priests, all tried to suppress him. But their men and beasts, all failed to impress him. For he had seen the future, so how could they compare. When he knew that in a twinkling, he'd already be there. They lay in wait, for they knew where to find him, through the hidden hate, of someone behind him. And though he knew they'd be there, he did not turn away. And he stood by his commitment, to be there on that day. The fiery eyes, of this marathon swimmer, of the cosmic sea, gave not a glimmer, of his final destinat

Words to a song I wrote 'bout twenty years ago.... Guyana Dreamin' I'm beginning to realize, That what you've got is catching, As another piece of me dies, and our brain wave patterns are matching. When I caught on to you, it was long overdue, I'm beginning to realize. I'm beginning to see the light, but I keep getting caught in the shadows. And the visions that come in the night, make better reflections than windows. Now I see right through you, and the things that you do, I'm beginning to see the light. I'm beginning to realize. When you came to me you comforted my soul, filled me with a love I never knew. You told me if I lost myself I'd finally feel whole, Now I can't remember who is who. We're beginning to see through your plan, That you never intended to make it. When they blow the lid off your scam, There's an easy way out, and you'll take it. Now we're all on to you, but too late and too few, We're beginning to see thr

Here are the words to a song in progress from about ten years ago that I have never gotten around to finsihing. I have the music, and even did a multi-track four-part harmony recording to a piano track of the following lyrics. But, the lyrics are just the opening and ending parts - no middle was ever written. Here's the part that's done, from a file dated 9-20-97 The P. C. Song There are heathens in the churches, there are faggots in the park, there are wetbacks in the bushes and the trees. There are black men in the white house, there are perverts in the dark, and this is why we get down on our knees. And we pray to make them go away. We shall sing Hallelujah on that day. Thy kingdom come, to wipe away the scum. But until then, we'll simply say, "Amen." ********* The miracle has happened, Our enemies are gone, They’ve vanished and there’s no one Left to fear. It must’ve been the rapture, But we don’t understand, Why they went up but we are Still down here. And

An idea I've been toying with for about twenty years. Any artists out there want to draw it for me so I can turn it into a graphic novel? Treatment of "Body Parts" a screenplay by Melanie Anne Phillips "Body Parts": A warm human comedy about a little girl and a bloody stump. Key to this production is the understanding that the timber of the picture must be "black comedy" at its finest. (Note George C. Scot in "Hospital" and David Lynch's "Twin Peaks".) The mood of the finished film is best described as a cross between "Little House on the Prairie" and "The Rocky Horror Picture Show". Indeed, it this very dichotomy of iconoclastic satire and warm human truth that lifts the production beyond being a flash-in-the-pan comedy into a long-lived celebration of the human spirit. In order for this kind of approach to work, the Characters cannot be aware of the ridiculous nature of their situation. In other words,

From one of my numerous old family photo albums.

An old picture with the url of an old web site that doesn't exist any more.

I wore this to work on Halloween one year. The blond hair is a wig. My costume was the "Dramatica Goddess", Dramatica being the story theory and software I was developing at that company. I had a wand and whacked people on the head saying in a Billie Burke (Glinda, the good witch) voice, "I'm the Dramatica Goddess, and I'll make all your story problems just... go away!"

Theory Notes From Melanie (Transcription from an audio recording) What follows are some notes, each of which would be a topic for an article to be written or a key point in a topic to be written. I’ll put the date with each topic, list it and speak a little bit about it First topic-June 25, 1994 Saturday I’m reading a book called The Visual Centers of the Brain where it talks about how there are of course, only three kinds of cones for color of vision and naturally 3 types of cones in terms of subjective view, tying in with 3’s. And it would be interesting to look at the concept that the reason that we see in 3 primary colors is not because that is really how they work, it is a continuous spectrum after all, but simply because that is our subjective view of what color is doing. Therefor color sense is a subjective interpretation, does not exist in any objective situation and that three cones would match the 3 points of the subjective view of the world and therefor be a dynamic impre