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Middle Kingdom Podcasts (2005-2017)

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The Language Company
Timothy M. Leonard's books on Goodreads
A Century Is Nothing A Century Is Nothing
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The Language Company The Language Company
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Finch's Cage Finch's Cage
ratings: 2 (avg rating 3.50)

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22 aug 06


Lady Di, doing her healing work in Arizona wrote post 9/11 history to him in Spain.

“Someone punctured a huge bubble protecting people living in their wildest consumer dreams. They thought they were impervious, isolated in their greed, consumption and apathy. All illusion.

“It’s rumored they had little knowledge or insight into poor disenfranchised people living their lives far away. They knew next to nothing about geography and how the world works. Scientists are still analyzing the data. Crunching numbers.

“Members of revolutionary tribes living outside this self perpetuating ideal perceived altered reality where children were groomed to avoid dangerous things let alone ideas and contagious diseases which might infect the group, have been informed. This is a scary time. 8.5 million people here are unemployed. The economy is facing collapse.”

He turned a page.

“It’s rumored the masses didn’t see it coming. The irony is not lost of some of them. Perhaps those paying attention lived outside transparent media ideology.

“They had their eyes open when others slept. They listened with their eyes while seeing with their ears.

“Yes, they paid attention in significant ways. They visualized the approaching point with a clarity that astounded those who believed tomorrow would be exactly like yesterday.

“And so, it dawned over Camelback Mountain above Paradise Valley haciendas in real and symbolic height, depth, and width. Light filtered into wide open eyes. The tribe gathered to discuss their situation.

“Take care of yourself.

So much for corporate confidence and fixed interest rates.


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21 Aug 06


On The Train

The Moroccan girl with wild brown hair tied back is not on the train as it leaves a white station.

She sits on her haunches. Her bare feet dig soil, grip small earth pebbles as exposed root structures dance with her toes.

Her toes are her extended connection where her shadow lies forgotten. It spreads upon vegetables. They wait below her. They prowl toward late winter light.

She is not on the red and brown train that zooms past green fields where her sheep in long woolen coats eat their way through pastures after a two year drought.

She is inside green the girl with her wild brown hair pulled tight. She is not on the train hearing music, eating dates, reading a book, talking with friends or strangers, sleeping along her passage, or dreaming of a lover.

She does not scan faces of tired, trapped people in their orange seats impatiently waiting for time to deliver them to a Red City in the desert.

Her history’s desert is full of potentates sharpening their swords, inventing icon free art, alphabets, practicing equality, creating five pillars of Islam and navigation star map tools, breaking wild stallions, building tiled adobe fortresses, selling spices, writing language.

She is not on the train drinking fresh mint tea or
consulting a pocket sized edition of the Qur'an. She does not kneel on her Berber carpet five times a day facing Mecca in the east.

She does not wear stereo earphones or listen to music imported from another world, a world where people treasure their watches. Where controlling time is their passion for being prompt and responsible citizens to give their lives meaning.

She is not on the train and not in this language the girl with her wild brown hair tied back with straw or leather or stems of wild flowers surrounding her with fragrances.

She is surrounded by orange blossom perfume beyond rolling hills, cut by wet canyons along yellow and green fields, where her black eyes penetrate white clouds in her blue sky.

In her open heart she hears her breath explore her long shadow, causing it to ripple with her shift. Her toes caress soil and she is lighter than air, lighter than a feather of a wild bird in the High Atlas mountains far away.

She smells the Berber tribal fire heating tea for the festival where someone wears a goatskin cape and skull below the stars.

It is cold outside. Flames leap from branches like shooting stars into her eyes and someone plays music. It is the music of her ancestors, her nomadic people and she sways inside the gradual hypnotic rhythm of her ancestral memory.

She is not on the train. She is inside a goat skull moving her hoofs through soil. She moves through fields where she danced as a child seeing red and yellow fire calling all the stars to her dance and she is not on the train.



18 aug 06


They say August is typically a slow media month.

Not if you're an attorney in bOlder, a print reporter looking for a fix, a tie died blues analyst on the idiot box or the chief of police in Bank Sock knock hickory-dickory-dock the deranged culprit ran up the clock. Ten Years After.

Numerous pundits, counter vipers, talk show jocks and retired legal beagles spin tales of what if's, may bees and suppositions. Hoopla. A Black Hole. Lost in space.

An ever ready never to be solved mystery of the universe - a used car needs a tune-up or a major overhaul. Drive it away today!

Shall we add to the infinite amount of spectacular speculation along with what others guess-timate?

Ok. He didn't do it. He's delusional just like the rest of us. He wouldn't know a pebble from a boulder. He's a fanatic, hysterical attention seeking deficit disordered robotic alien living in flea bag box. His obscure definite dead end.

This act in the tragic play will sell a lot of soap on prime time. Fodder for the sheep. Get out the dissection tools and tissues. Will it play on Broadway or close after poor reviews? Depends of the ratings.

Don't miss a single sorry sad episode.



14 aug 06


Here are two quotes for your philosophical diet.

"What I do today is important because I am paying a day of my life for it. What I accomplish must be worthwhile because the price is high."

"I have sought, I am searching, and I will search for what I call the Total Phenomenon, that is the Totality of conscience, relations, conditions, possibilities and impossibilities." - Paul Valery

We recently passed a woman working at a sewing machine. Her fingers bled a red color into life's fabric. A nearby sign read, "Plenty of work, no shoes."

Around life's corner, down a street, across a rope bridge, up a steep trail, through a green meadow, over a treacherous mountain, and behind a sprawling desert at an oasis near a stream of life rested a young internally displaced boy. A nearby sign read, "No work, $150 shoes."


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13 aug 06


It's predawn, clean cool air, blue skies with traces of orange. Going to be hotter than a streetwalker in Gong Bei near Macau plying her trade in a halter top at high noon.

On my desk is a Bonsai type plant with gnarling root structure, splendid green leaves and barely decipherable new shoots. The soil displays a spiral sea shell, a rough gray speckled rock from Andalucian Sierra mountains and a small brown pine cone.

The plant has a part-time resident, a little greenish-mauve arachnid. Small head, long legs. It actually lives somewhere else and visits the plant. I've seen it twice. It shoots out a web string, attaches itself and creates a little magic. Then, it slides away and disappears behind the desk.

Well, today, something amazing happened. I'm sitting here doing my work and watching the spider when suddenly, I felt a slight sensation on my left shoulder. It'd zapped me with a thin web strand, (a form of spider blog?) scurried across, secured the connection and returned to a leaf.

I was paralyzed with fear and delight. Fear because as I shifted, the strand played in the wind. I didn't want to sever it by quick movements so remained still. It went about it's work.

Delight due to the sensation. We spoke in SpiderSpeak having this ability from extensive travel, intensive study and natural inclination.

"I don't understand your intention Sir Spidey. Let's assume, for the sake of science and friendship it's a simple direct way of greeting, this strand of yours."

"Yes, it is. I enjoy your plant. It's an excellent location for me to create beauty. And I trust you."

"I trust you also," I replied in SpiderSpeak.

It weaved around, through leaves, played out away from the Bonsai and vanished.

Spiders are unique little creatures.


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