I appreciate live music, an experience of being there while the sounds are created and enjoyed by musicians and a crowd alike. I don’t differentiate, one can see me watching Prince or U2 as well as a local jazz band. In fact, I have a strong feeling that I do prefer a local jazz band over anything else.

Having lived in Prague for just a short period, I am not acquainted with a lot of people around but through a lucky coincidence I got to know a lovely young lady called Leona Prokopcová. Leona is a jazz singer and a regular in a downtown jazz venue Agharta.

Seeing Leona on stage is always an occasion — unlike a large number of other musicians, notably those who perform a deeper genre such as jazz — Leona is not afraid to communicate with the audience, poke a joke or tell a story to introduce a song. I guess it’s often the attitude that makes all the difference. Of course, she’s also an impressive singer — hearing her live is an uplifting and stirring event without fail.

Unfortunately, I just cannot get my timing right — I missed her last concert not knowing she was to perform and I’m gonna miss her next one this Saturday as I’m out of town. And I’m seriously worried how many more chances I get to see her as she’s supposedly leaving Prague for Denmark in few months.

So for those of you who have a chance, go see her gig, it’s well worth the time. But if you run into me afterwards, please don’t rave too much, all right? I’m already sorry I’m not gonna be there.

Being insomniac, homeless and unemployed opens unseen opportunities for an everyday man. Or a woman, of course. Amongst them reigns my favourite one — late night shopping.

Shopping as such does not thrill me. How can it? There’s no passion in pushing a supermarket trolley for oneself or — to be more accurate — to push a trolley for one’s mother, girlfriend or girlfriend’s mother. That’s exactly how I remember shopping for some thirty-plus years. Of course, there’s always a bonus of having to avoid collisions with a myriad of other trolleys, ill-mannered kids and then — when the crusade seems to be almost accomplished — there’s a never-ending snail-paced queue to be conquered.

How cool is that? One is sweating or freezing, depending on an air-con settings, can’t wait to get out of there and then the cashier cannot find/scan an item or there’s a dispute about a bill. Or the computer system goes down. Or anything.

On the other hand, there’s a late night shopping. And I do mean late by saying late. ‘Cos in Sydney, many people think a late night shopping is shopping till 8 pm. They’re wrong, obviously. Late night shopping means shopping late at night. Like, let’s say, 3 am (my favourite time). Obviously, one has to live in a larger city and in a proximity of a non-stop shopping centre, sometimes called a hypermarket.

Now, before we move further, let me explain etymology of a hypermarket in short. Once, there were ordinary shops. Then, there were supermarkets; those were selling more or less anything from groceries to toothbrushes. And then, later on, hypermarkets took over. If super means kilo in a marketing newspeak, then hyper stands for mega.

A hypermarket is a place where you can buy almost anything you may need late at night. A fresh apple. A toothbrush. A Milli Vanilli CD. A plasma TV. A bicycle. A new sofa. Anything you please.

Imagine such a hyper vast space, no customers, a tranquil night — and it’s yours to shop. That’s what a late night shopping is all about. There’s no screaming children, there’s no trolley traffic jams, in fact there’s no need for a trolley at all, unless one’s getting more than they can carry, and there’s no queues at registers. It’s like a sci-fi in making. All but masochists and slow-witted must understand definite advantages for a a human being — time saving, mental health protection and the like.

I have enjoyed shopping at night ever since they had opened a hypermarket close to my home about a decade ago. Back then, it was me encouraging friends to go shopping after 11 pm, and now again, it’s me strolling through isles when everybody sleeps. Clearly, it’s a great way to fight insomnia. Having been shown keys to a new pad in Prague recently, there’s also lots to shop for. During my first night, I bought myself blankets, sheets and pillows. A number of small appliances followed. Then a book or two.

Hm… That reminds me that I was planning to get an armchair tonight. I’ve heard it’s simple to beat insomnia sitting in an armchair, reading classics and listening to some, too. Maybe Kafka & Dvořák will happen to be a good combination, being in Prague. I just get that armchair first…

It’s 4:30 am. I’ve been insomniac for about three months now. Actually, it is exactly three months as of tonight. I can only guess why though it apparently has something to do with changing seasons, climate and time zones. And having no fixed timetable. No system, as they say. But hey, three months and no proper sleep?

Have been reading a lot lately, both the real books and the Internet. History of Czechoslovakia seems to be my late night passion. The more I know the more interesting it gets. Different points of view make me realise there is no simple truth, it’s multi-layered, it always has been and it’s only getting more complicated as people get more inputs to make decisions.

I do enjoy reading old books and hanging out in second-hand bookshops. Found one, properly stocked, bargain-priced, complete with an enthusiastic owner. Plus, it’s not too far from my base to be.

My base to be; an important point. I am finally about to move in sometime next week. Hopefully. Everybody’s invited to housewarming, of course.

It’s been a bit tiring, being insomniac, homeless and unemployed for such a time. Though I’m exaggerating and it may as well turn out to be holidays rather than a real unemployment. And my homelessness ain’t real either. Thankfully.

So I’m only left to beat insomnia and everything will be fine again. Perhaps I could give it a go.

Good night.

It’s winter. W-I-N-T-E-R. It’s a kind of season people in Sydney often talk about but hardly know or have ever seen, even if they pretend or genuinely believe they do and have. They don’t and haven’t, let me tell you. For most of them, winter is when it’s from 15 to 20°C during the day, with temperatures dropping to about 10°C at night, meaning they have to get a jacket for long cold nights out. And they feel it’s scary.

I have a different winter in mind. A real scary one. A winter during which mercury hardly reaches zero, staying permanently underneath that frightening mark. A winter with snow flying in the air, or even better, covering the ground, with foggy wet days and bright super-cold ones, with people hiding in their beautifully warm dwellings with double-glazed windows and central heating — both inventions virtually unknown to the population of Australia (though I cannot talk for the Tasmanians).

I have thrown myself into a winter like that. Voluntarily. One day baking my bones in Shark Bay, next one numbly walking through shopping alleys at Dubai International, third one pushing my way through hordes of Arsenal fans in London suburbia and finally fourth one being spitted out in sensationally grey and gloomy Prague. And wintery one, too.

I guess I knew the theory. This was to be expected. Maybe not as classy as snowstorm, yet equally effective. The beauty of thermal inversion. The eerie of darkened foggy days leisurely metamorphosing into eerie of even darker foggy nights and than back again. And again. And again.

Nine days and nights. Suddenly, one begins to understand why Michael Hutchence chose Prague for the set of their most melancholic video. Or how Kafka could trip here without a need to use hallucinogens.

The weather has cleared just in time for New Year’s Eve. Seeing starry skies after such treatment felt like winning a lotto. Emotionally, I mean. Starry skies have nothing to do with bank accounts, as far as I’m concerned. Uplifted now, it’s somehow easier to wish everyone a happy and successful new year.

So. So. I wish you, for both of us of tm91, a happy and successful new year. And please, do not forget to have a towel handy at all times.

A Sunday, as good as any other. Temperature’s reaching thirty, I’m enjoying a lunch with bunch of mates, indulging in foreign cuisine, hmmm, so good it’s almost bordering debauchery. Yet there’s a cloud hanging over my head. Or rather two of them. The first one that makes me run to a car just seconds after parting ways with friends, the other one slightly larger, harsher, more irritating, hanging exclusively over me. I am moving.

I’ve been moving all my life. While some people never leave their village, I cannot count a number of beds I laid my bones across. I do not mind — I really don’t; it’s only the act of actual moving that makes me a bit dizzy, slightly nervous and remarkably unpleasant.

To fight above mentioned distress, I invented and over the years mastered and perfected a recipe for moving:

Point one, above all, is — don’t panic. That should be written in large, friendly letters on any recipe anyway.

Point two, almost equally important — do nothing. For as long as possible, ignore the inevitable. Act as if nothing was to come. Pretend it’s business as usual. Ideally, do not even talk about it. Keep it for yourself. The more people know, the more people ask annoying questions. The more people give you advice. The more people want to attend a farewell party and (often the same ones!) a housewarming one.

Point three — listen to music that can be enjoyed quietly in a lounge. Trying desperately to avoid using that derogatory word lounge music. Basically, we’re talking about something The Wilbury brothers would approve of. Something between Ray Charles and Beck. The choice is yours. Relax, take it easy. You may even want to try breathing exercises. They come handy soon.

Point four — without discussing this point in detail, please google Blitzkrieg. As fast as humanly possible, the following has to be done: pack all the necessary stuff, sell everything that is not necessary and can be sold, give away or throw away (meaning recycle) anything that cannot fall into previous categories, disconnect services, move out, move in, unpack, reconnect services. Welcome home!

Point five — have a cigar and a decent drink. You’d need it, trust me. Scotch, quality wine or cranberry juice are acceptable. Having bath is essential to stay sane.

Hovering between third and fourth point, and trying to move on (a bit sarcastic when considering to move out and move in), I’m contemplating. Looking around, recording a final reel of a surreal mental flick set in this place. Everything comes back in flashbacks. Each piece of a furniture, each spot of an apartment tells a story. If they can be memorised, they go with me. If not, they have to stay behind, I don’t feel like taking prisoners. Of course, there’s a scent of nostalgia in the air, though evaporating as soon as I get to the blitzkrieg point.

And then — once unpacking is complete, I’ve had a bath and maybe an imaginary Red Apple cigarette, it’s time to start filming a new flick somewhere else. Actually, I can’t wait.