Belated | Notes On Hats
Carlo Mombelli & The Prisoners Of Strange | 12/12/25
Circling where the venue should be, a rising niggle. It's not even nine yet according to the listing it’s late, I pay no mind: Jazz is the sufi word for time travel.
She winds down her window.
“You need your bath.”
Opening the door, settling in, driving away from the intersection where all of us spend the days asking for change, whathaveyou.
Reactionary Reviews | Variasies Op ‘n Tema
Variasies toes a line between elegiac and pretentious, and pulls off this high wire act by not resorting to hand-wringing, moving to a subtle, soul-shifting gestalt.
He leaves the rehab fat and full of confidence. He is afraid of disappointing his mother. Glowing complexion, new clothes from the outside, and a shrug, happy to be clean, out the rusty gate, under the wide sky. Three months later he returns unrecognisable. Thin, more teeth gone, and a homeless tan, dark burnt by the sun.
Reactionary Reviews | 180
At precisely 38:22 the newish Netflix algo-scripted revenge pile on, 180, falls apart with a single shot.
He escapes from the clinic. Weeks of complaining about his feet, aching, sore to walk on, walking around the rehab wincing. There were discussions, in the three years he's been in rehab he has tried to run twice before – but now his feet are so sore. He walks barefoot around the rehab, wincing when anyone looks at him.
Quartz Street is cut in half by Highpoint. A husk of an apartment building atop a husk of a shopping centre, with a supermarket that is incredibly easy to shoplift from -if, like me, you are white. On the street above – Highpoint is in Hillbrow, just before the brow of the hill, on one side Quartz is a walkway, with stalls down the middle and hastily occupied and abandoned shops down the sides.
From the crisp cavern of the last of the stars I am woken with half a mug of semi warm sweet black tea. I can feel the warmth of the security hut lingering in this incursion of hands into my nest. There is a message for me on his phone – charging in the hut, I must come, he leaves shift in ten.
Reactionary Review | Swift | by Melinda Ferguson
I don’t need to read Melinda Ferguson’s latest pity porn memoir “Swift” to know it’s shit. The promo interview headline in last week’s Business Day says it all. Look it up, I’m not going to give them the fucking clicks. And no, I didn’t bother to read the interview either.
He arrived back beaten. It was obvious the beating was fake. We had pooled our money and he had gone to buy from the dealer who sells stone. He was gone for four hours. I had already hustled more and smoked and was merely simmeringly pissed off. Tell me you smoked it all and it's fine. He clung on to the story and I had no choice but to act like I believed him. For whatever reason he needed that freedom. Here, in the clutch of this transient community, you get aligned with acting like you believe and working with the remnants.