Adonis Diaries

Archive for the ‘short stories/novellas’ Category

And seasons resume their natural trends: Not aware of this Corona pandemics?

Note: I re-edited this article and tried to add poetry to Google translation from French

It was March 2020

The streets were empty, stores closed, people couldn’t go out anymore.

And then Spring flashed its colors, spread its scent: Spring didn’t know why this awful unusual aloofness of people with nature.

And the flowers bloomed prematurely, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, swallows were coming sooner, the sky was blue, and another glorious morning took us by surprise.

It was March 2020…
Young people had to study online, and find jobs from home, people couldn’t shop anymore, or go to the hairdresser. Soon there would be no room in hospitals, and people continued to get sick.

The garden needed urgent upkeep, the grass was re-surfacing its head, and still Spring was memoryless of what’s going on

It was March 2020…
People have been on lockdown, to protect grandparents, families and children. No more reunion or meal, family party. Fear has become real and the days looked alike.

But spring didn’t know, apple trees, cherry blossomed and the leaves grew green and larger

People started reading, playing with family, learning a new language (hopefully the language of cheerful living), singing on the balcony by inviting neighbors to join in, share the supportive community, and focused on other values than indefinite growth in production and financial “services”.

Then, it might have dawned on people the importance of health, the suffering of the isolated patients, of this crowded world that had stopped, of economical “perpetual growth” on halt.

But spring didn’t know. the flowers transformed into fruits, the bees enjoyed the abundance, the birds made their nest, swallows had arrived.

Then people found out on TV that this contagious virus had lost this round in the battle for a while, people hurried down to the streets, singing, crying, kissing their neighbors, without masks or gloves.

And that’s when summer took the spring by surprise: Both seasons didn’t know in what a mess humankind has been going through.

The next season started despite everything, despite the virus, fear and death. Because spring and all the seasons taught people the power of life.

Everything will be alright, stay home, protect yourself, and take another shot to enjoying life, a quality in living.

Biography of this Citizen of the Word: Carlos Ghosn (ex chairman of Nissan-Renault)

Note 1: This is a re-edit of my post of 2008 unter the title “Carlos Ghosn: Citoyen du Monde” by Philippe Ries; (Reviewed on September 27, 2006)

Note 2: Carlos Ghosn was harassed by the biased Japanese judiciary system for 3 years, until he was whisked away to Lebanon a couple of months ago in 2020. You may read the petition after Ghosn was arrested and denied communication with anyone

We are going to have a quick overview of the professional path of Carlos Ghosn, his upbringing, which is similar to thousands of Lebanese,  his professional training at Michelin, and then focus on the problems and solutions of the institutions he handled to guide them into profitability, especially Nissan.

Of Lebanese descent, Carlos was born in Brazil and repatriated to Lebanon at the age of 6, after a serious gastric sickness that he contracted at age two which prompted his Lebanese mother to settle in a more clement weather.  (I was also repatriated to Lebanon from Mali at age 6 after contracting Typhoid fever and barely survived).

He lived his youth in Beirut with his mother and older sister, and finished his secondary education in the Jesuit institution of Notre Dame Jamhour.

He transferred to Paris where he did higher math studies and joined the Polytechnic School and continued at the engineering University of Mines with high distinctions.

He lived in a very limited perimeter for 7 years around these Universities and most of his courses were highly abstract concepts in mathematics.

Carlos mentioned that when he took a course in economics his professor defined rent as a triple integral function and then focused on the mathematical processes.

The French pneumatic manufacturer Michelin hired him because he was from Brazil and had plans to bolster its faltering businesses there.

Carlos rose quickly in the hierarchy and was promoted director of a new factory at the age of 27, then was dispatched to Brazil where inflation was rampant and managed to turn the Michelin branch in South America around to profitability within 3 years.

Carlos was transferred to the USA and did an excellent job restructuring the merger with the faltering pneumatic company Uniroyal-Goodrich.

By the time he left to join the car manufacturer Renault, the multinational Michelin was doing 60% of its profit from the USA branch.

Carlos was 41 years old when he decided on his second major move; chiefly because, as Michelin is primarily a family business, he was not ever to become the number one man and no further promotion to be expected.

He was working for 3 years at Renault when it acquired 36% of the Japanese car manufacturer Nissan.

Nissan was a multinational company and was experiencing certain death after years of losses. Carlos was dispatched to Japan to take the helm of the board of directors of Nissan. And he was successful within 3 years, and Nissan was back into profitability without any dept.

Carlos Ghosn is expected to take over Renault in 2005 when Louis Schweitzer goes to retirement.

What struck me in the first part of Carlos’ autobiography is the parallel in the genesis of Carlos Ghosn life with thousands of Lebanese, and particularly mine.

The grandfather of Carlos, Bichara , was from Kesrouan and a Maronite who immigrated to Brazil because of the famine, which  killed over 200,000 Lebanese in WWI, when he was 13 years of age.

Bechara was penniless and illiterate and left from the port of Beirut during the Ottoman Empire, thus a ‘Turco’, as the Syrians and Lebanese had Turkish passports.

The trip lasted 3 months and ended in Rio de Janeiro. Bichara traveled to the region of Guapore with Capital Porto Velho, in the Amazon and close to Bolivia. Bechara died at the age of 53 from a minor surgery after establishing 3 industries: commerce in cereals, rubber and airline travel and begetting 4 boys and 4 girls. (My grandfather also succumbed from an appendix surgery)

Ghosn’s father Jorge took over the airline business and visited Lebanon where he married Rose, nicknamed Zetta, who studied at the French school of Besancon and whose father worked in Nigeria.

Carlos suffered a gastric illness and was taken to Rio and then shipped to Beirut with his mother at the age of six in 1960 where the climate was fairer and the water cleaner.

Jorge visited his family one summer every two years. (The same pattern with my family who worked in Africa and had us living in a boarding school)

Carlos did his primary and secondary education at a Jesuit institution called Notre Dame of Jamhour. Carlos was multilingual, Portuguese, Arabic, French, English, and lately some Japanese.  He struggled continuously with his primary language as he moved around and settled for a while in a country.

Carlos had passion for history and geography and secondly literature.

In 1971, Carlos finished his secondary schooling and had no definite specialty in mind.  He left to Paris to continue his higher education.  At the instigation of one of his teacher, Carlos was directed to study higher math and he enrolled in the college of Polytechnic and on to the University of Mines.

During Lebanon civil war that started in 1975, Carlos’ mother and sister in Lebanon traveled to Paris and then continued to Brazil where they settled with his father.

When Carlos, at the age of 27, was assigned as director of operations for the Michelin businesses in Brazil he decided to marry Rita, a 20 years old Lebanese student in pharmacy in Lyon.  They have 3 daughters and one son.

It is necessary to dwell on the training program in Michelin that enriched Carlos and offered him the opportunities to learn the management and financial skills and progress.

It is his formation at Michelin that provided Carlos with a wide spectrum for tackling general and particular problems in faltering enterprises.  Michelin hired Carlos in 1978 and he travels to Clermont Ferrand.

In the first 3 months, the new recruits for all types of functions follow the same program consisting of conferences given by the main directors on the different aspects of the business and backed up by small real operational problems to find simple solutions for them.

The new recruits lived together and they learn to go through the transition between a student life and the active one.  This training program also offered management a profile of the new recruits and their potentials in different sectors of the business.

At the end of the training period, Carlos is affected to work for another 3 months in a factory preparing the rubber that will be turned into tires.  His work consists of cutting the rubber, rolling it up, inserting it into moulds and then transporting it, but the best part is the fraternity that is created among the workers and the future bosses.

Carlos is promoted foreman for a group of workers in a new factory at Puy-en-Velay.  Six months later he is dispatched to Karlsruhe, Germany, to get training on quality control, then training in industrial organization at the factory in Tours.  He is promoted group chief of production for a year at the factory in Cholet.

In 1981, Carlos is 27 years old and director of the new factory where he worked as foreman and will stay 2 years and three months.

Carlos is summoned to headquarter to meet with the ‘Boss’ Francois Michelin; the Boss assigns him the task of investigating the troubles of the straggling affiliate Kleber-Colombes.

Carlos works with the director of finance Behrouz Chahid-Nourai and discover the concept of “cross manufacturing” for utilizing the same tools of production for several products under different brands.

After offering his recommendations to revitalize Kleber-Colombes he is affected to the research department for a year, the job that Michelin initially contemplated that he might fit better in the company.

In June 1985 Carlos is promoted director of operations in Brazil.

In February 1989, Carlos takes over the operations in the USA and settles in Greenville South Carolina.

This training formation at Michelin is at the foundation of Carlos concept of forming leaders in any enterprise.

The primary task of the ‘Boss’ of any institution is to send everyone with potential to the hot fronts, on the fields (terrains) where difficulties are observed and then offer them chances to fail sometimes.

It is by providing opportunities to learn and prove leadership that the ‘Boss’ can insure the survival of his enterprise when he decides to retire.

The leaders of tomorrow are formed from the challenges of today and the clever ‘Boss’ should end up with a wide choice of alternative leaders when the time to retire is near.

When a general director is hired he had to assume and embrace the responsibilities of the past, present, and future status of the enterprise; he is not allowed to dwell on excuses from past failures as if they were not of his doing.

A general director has to first gather all the current facts and information on the institution and base his theory on this intelligence. The boss has to feel the enterprise and the clients by frequent visit to the different sections of the business and proffer the same message everywhere; the boss does not have to comprehend in depth every facet of the business, that is the job of the specialists whose task is to adequately summarize the topic so that the boss is in apposition to take decisions.

The boss should not forget for a moment that the crux of the matter is to produce quality products and be able to sell them, otherwise, if diversification into other businesses is undertaken without close supervision to the core business then the enterprise will suffer ultimately.

The next part will focus on the professional aspects of Carlos when he was selected to head the operations of reviving Nissan from certain death in 1999 and the successive performances and the systemic failures in Japan culture for running an enterprise.



Short story: Ajdad wants to change as he was reminded that he is already perceived an elder person

Ajdad grew up unpretentious, and was perceived a stuck up child.

Ajdad cared for nothing in particular in order to ask questions, much less pertinent questions.

This naive kid grew up more naive with age: The more he knew about people and the universe, the more confused he felt and had no idea from where to start his questioning with other people…

Ajdad grew to be over 60 year-old and he is keeping himself fit and young, Not in matter of speed and aerobics, but for endurance and flexibility.

And time passed pretty quick for Ajdad to realize that he is banished from the youth community, even the over thirty-something.

At his early age, Ajdad didn’t felt this strong urge to communicate and question his peers or relatives.

And he was perceived as an unbearably pretentious person to associate with or keep any steady link with him.

He became highly critical and cynical since he gathered many higher educational degrees in many field of study, especially in rational thinking and experimental designs.

Adjad accumulated a vast comprehensive knowledge on many issues, and he persist on patronizing libraries every day, to read and write.

Though Ajdad is starting to listen and learn about human interactions and traditional biases.

He is letting his funny and ironic hidden “streak” spread when he meet “strangers”, and love to make people laugh hard, at his own expense.

Ajdad may grow to be 90, but he is Not likely to find a single close friend to keep him company, as the trend keeps speaking loudly since his early age.

Any comfort to know the assassin of a young relative? After 20 years of the event? (Short story)

“Notre petite Isabel, desole’ de te laisser un tel fardeau. Tu m’ a donne’ plus de bonheur que je n’en ai jamais merite’ ”

Apres ces revelations, j’ai su que le pere, Jean-Paul, etait l’assassin de Janie (17 ans), il y a 20 ans de cela.

C’est un tour de genie de Liane Moriarty dans “Le secret du mari” de condenser une longue letter de Jean-Paul a sa femme Cecilia, une lettre qu’elle ne devait l’ouvrire qu’apres sa mort. On lit la lettre complete 2 chapitres apres.

Apparemment, JeanPaul avait ecrit cette lettre apres la naissance de sa premiere fille Isabel, apres s’etre soule’ (l’excuse traditionelle) et qu’ il avait l’intention de detruire la lettre et l’avait oublier dans une de ces boites a chaussures ou’ il classifiait ses documents.

Jean-Paul avait aussi 17 ans et fou d’amour de Janie. Janie et Jean Paul ont garde’ leur relation secrete de tout le monde, amis et parents. Il a etrangle’Janie apres lui avoir dit qu’elle aimait un autre garson, un peu plus age’.

C’est pour cette raison que la police ne l’a jamais interroge’. Il avait dit a Cecilia: “Si la police m’avait interroge’, j’aurais confesse'”. Pas sure que sa mere Virginia l’aurait encourage’: elle sut que son aine’ Jean-Paul etait l’assassin du chapele’ special autour des mains de Janie.

Jean-Paul ne peut pas encore croire que les quelques secondes de ses larges mains autour du coup de Janie pouvait la faire mourire.

Je suis au tier du bouquin, et les traces d’une condition prealable de sante’ de Janie sont nombreuses: Difficulte’ de respirer, maux dans le dos, tres fragile… et son pere est mort aussi d’une crise cardiaque devastatrice 20 ans apres…

Se plot d’oublier la lettre dans une boite est trop incroyable, meme si c’est convenient pour l’histoire. Non, ca ne tient pas debout.

Si Jean-Paul voulait qu’une persone connaisse la verite’, une sorte de confession pour l’ apres mort condition, il aurait laisse’ la lettre avec son notaire pour l’ouvire apres sa mort et decider a qui relayait le secret.

Un notaire de valeur morale aurait contacte’ le chef de la police pour classer l’affaire et de ne rien dire a la famille de Jean -Paul ou celle de Janie.

An old man in the psych group said: “The assassin is serving a life sentence. And it is still Not a comfort for me

And what if this prisoner would be let free within 20 years? Instead of sorrow and anger, most probably fear will set in?

Personne n’a vraiment interet a connaitre l’assassin apres 30-40 ans de l’affaire. I n’ a pas de recomfort a cette confession tardes: La plupart sont deja’ mort, suite a leur chagrin.

There is no comfort for people who refuse to sustain any period of comfort, as if this is a capital sin, like killing an innocent person, or being perceived a coward in the struggle to survive.

Note: Ce rire meprisant qui decompose le visage, surtout apres avoir affirme’: “J’ aime une autre personne”. Ce rire, qui veut sortir d’une situation trop encombrante, a tue’ beaucoup de jeunes (surtout des filles) et embarasse’ beaucoup de jeunes adolescents pour la vie.


Moussa worst nightmares were Obama’s predictable USA drone attacks

L’une des hantises de Moussa est les drones, particulierement ceux envoyes par US president Obama: il etait friyant d’user a volonte’e et partout ses drones quand un des miliciens Islamists couvrait la une des medias.

Moussa est le maitre inconteste’ de l’embassade Americaine a Tripoli, evacuee’ pendant un temps.

Moussa a plusieurs sources de cash qui arrivent de tout azimut: les armes passant par le Sahara, la cocaine acheminee’ a Malte et puis dans tout l’Europe, les antiquites de Laptis Magna (pres de Serte? une cite’ bourgeouise du temps de l’empereur Romain Septime Severe, en 203, un originaire de la Syrie), le petrol, the slave trade…

Au debut des annees 90, Moussa le Libyen, etait au Caire quand il joinit les Freres Musulmans. Les flics de Moubarak l’ ont balance’ dans une voiture, roue’ de coups, matraque’, jete’ dans une avion pour etre recuperer par une autre C-17 a l’aeropore de Tirana

Les forces speciales Americaines en treillis noirs ont recommences les seances de matraquages, d’interrogations, la clavicule cassee’, prive’ de sommeil depuis 2 jours, un sac humide sur la tete, pendu a une potence par les poignets, et dans un body bag rempli de galce.

Moussa est ensuite achemine’ au danjon de Bagram en Afghanistan…

Le processus de produire un terrorist Islamic Sunnit.

Moussa est envoye’ en Libye pour combattre Kadhafi et il s’est fait appeller commandant d’une milice financee’ par Qatar.

Comme maitre de l’embassade Americaine pour un temps, Moussa recoit des journalistes et donne des interviews a toutes les chaines, friyant d’ entendre les calamites de cette region.

Moussa assure et confirme que l’embassade est securise’ et saine et sauve des attaques des autres milices qui la convoite.

Il a suffit qu’une fois Moussa se plaint dans un interview de la brutalite’ des Americains durant sa formation qu’un drone le carbonise.

Ce matin fatidique, Moussa avait bien dormi sans faire de cauchemares.

Moussa avait recu des rapports confirmant que les Americains sont tres satisfait de son job et de ses services.

Note: An edited version of an excerpt from the book “Mecaniques du Chaos” de Daniel Rondeau. A good read.

Why she had to do that? (Short story)

I knew her from middle school and our affection grew steadily: we were considered a couple and the world problems didn’t count much to us.

After graduation, we got wed: the few invitees told me it was like a pantomime: a prom date.

One day, we threw a big party at our small apartment and we got drunk.

I was kissing a girl when my love barged into the kitchen and saw us. She laughed hysterically and left in a hurry.

By the time I rejoined her, she had jumped over the 3 floors. My first instinct was to jump too and rejoin her. My friends helped me to go downstairs.

I laid down near her inert body and mumbled: “If I knew you could be the cruellest person that history ever created. That’s Not a punishment you crazy cunt. I don’t love you anymore: You are a dead body…”

For 20 years, everytime I’m at a balcony, My right leg tends to hump the rail, but my body wouldn’t react to this prompt.

I have been transferring my attention to adolescents, Not dwelling too much on their upbringing, Not suffering enough for their experiences. “Love is a losing game”

Diary of Syrian Kidnapping: Richard Engel Reveals…

NBC News’s Richard Engel was dispatched to cover Syria’s civil war last December (2013?).

He and his crew were dragged from their car at gunpoint, blindfolded, gagged, and held captive by the shabbiha militia for 5 days.

Engel documented his captivity in April’s 2013 issue of Vanity Fair in a journal-like format, of which this is an excerpt. 

A group of about 15 armed men were fanning out around us. Three or four of them stood in the middle of the road blocking our vehicles. The others went for the doors. They wore black jackets, black boots, and black ski masks. They were professionals and used hand signals to communicate.

A balled fist meant stop. A pointed finger meant advance.

Each man carried an AK-47. Several of the gunmen began hitting the windows of our car and minivan with the stocks of their weapons. When they got the doors open, they leveled their guns at our chests.

Time was slowing down as if I’d been hit in the head. Time was slowing down as if I were drowning.

This can’t be happening. I know what this is. These are the shabbiha. They’re fucking kidnapping us.

“Get out!” a gunman was yelling as he dragged Aziz from the car.

Then I saw the container truck. It wasn’t far away, parked off the road and hidden among olive trees. The metal doors at its rear stood open, flanked by gunmen.

We’re going into that truck.

I got out of the car. Two of the gunmen were already marching Aziz to the truck. He had his hands up, his shoulders back, his head tilted forward to protect against blows from behind.

Maybe I should run right now. But the road is flat and open. The only cover is by the trees near the truck. But where?

I saw John standing by the minivan. Gunmen were taking Ian toward the truck. It was his turn. Like me, John hadn’t been touched yet.

Our eyes made contact. John shrugged and opened his hands in disbelief. Time was going very slowly now, but my mind was racing like a panicked heart in a body that can’t move.

“Get going!” a gunman yelled at me in Arabic, pointing his weapon at my chest.

I looked at him blankly, pretending not to understand.

Foreigners who speak Arabic in the Middle East are often assumed to be working for the C.I.A. or Israel’s intelligence agency the Mossad. The gunman took me by the finger, holding on to it by the very tip. I could have pulled it away with the smallest tug.

John was the next to join us in the back of the truck. He walked slowly, as if being escorted to a waiting limo. John is a New Yorker and was dressed entirely in black. He has long white hair and a devilish smile, and his nickname is the Silver Fox.

John and I had been in a lot of rough places—Libya, Iraq, Gaza. John, Ghazi, and Aziz were among my closest friends in the world.

At least I’ll die with my friends.

The rebel commander Abdelrazaq was confused. He thought this was a misunderstanding. He thought that this was a group of rebels who’d gone rogue and were acting like commandos.

“What are you doing?” he yelled to the gunmen as they loaded him into the truck. “We are Free Syrian Army! We are Free Syrian Army! I am a commander with the Free Syrian Army.”

We were traveling in rebel territory. Government forces weren’t supposed to be here.

“Oh, you’re Free Syrian Army?” one of the gunmen answered. “Here’s to your Free Syrian Army.” He kicked Abdelrazaq in the face, then smashed a rifle butt into his back.

The gunman seemed to be in charge of the others. We would learn that his name was Abu Jaafar. He spoke with a thick Alawite accent.

Alawites are a sect of Shiite Muslims, and for 4 decades Alawites and Shiites have ruled over the rest of Syria.

Bashar al-Assad is an Alawite. But Alawites and Shiites are only around 10 percent of the population. Almost all of the rest—and all of the rebels—are Sunni Muslims.

This is a sectarian war. So are most of the conflicts these days in the old Ottoman provinces of the Middle East. We’d become part of a long fight that wasn’t ours.

“Do you love Bashar?,” Abu Jaafar asked.

“Of course I love President Bashar,” Abdelrazaq replied.

“You don’t even deserve to utter his name, you animal,” Abu Jaafar said. Once again he kicked Abdelrazaq and beat him with his rifle butt.

“We are journalists from American television,” I said in En­glish.

One of the gunmen grabbed me by the hair and smashed my head against the metal wall of the container. “Who are you?” he asked in Arabic. I pretended not to understand.

“We are journalists. We work for American television,” I said again.

Everyone was in the truck by now. The metal floor smelled of diesel fuel and machine oil and was very cold and slippery. I kept sliding down as I sat with knees at my chest and my back to the container wall. I was watching Abu Jaafar beat the commander.

Several of the gunmen closed the doors to the container and stayed with us inside. They turned on flashlights. They were prepared.

Two of them lifted me to my feet and wrapped duct tape around my mouth, eyes, and wrists. They stripped off my belt and shoes. They did the same to the rest of the group. Now blind, I felt hands reaching into my pockets and taking my phone and my passport.

They’ve done this before.

I didn’t have much else on me. I had deliberately left my main mobile phone in Turkey.

I’d cleaned my laptop, too, removing files and contacts that could be incriminating to a suspicious mind. We had each pared down before coming in. Kidnapping is always a threat in this life of reporting on men hurting one another because of religion and politics.

An Israeli business card left in a wallet could be a death sentence. I knew that many of the shabiha gunmen would assume we were spies anyway—conspiracy theories are a weed in this part of the world.

An Egyptian newspaper once publicly identified me as the C.I.A. station chief in Cairo. It seemed so stupid at the time. I was only 24, a little young to be a station chief, and, of course, I was never with the C.I.A.

The truck started up and eased out of the grove. We could feel it traveling over bumpy roads.

I’ve reported on Shiite militias butchering Sunnis, and on Sunnis bombing Shiites in Iraq. I still felt like a reporter. I was still on a story. This was sectarian violence. This wasn’t happening to me but to them. I was angry with myself for thinking that.

Stay focused. You are here. You need to survive this. The first few hours are the most dangerous.

The truck came to a stop about 20 minutes later. Metal scraped against metal as the rear doors creaked open. Light and cold air rushed in.

“Where is the gunman?,” Abu Jaafar asked.

“That’s me, sir,” said the young man in the green fatigues. Abdelrazaq’s bodyguard could not have been more than 20.

Abu Jaafar’s men took the bodyguard out of the truck.

“Finish him,” Abu Jaafar said.

The gunmen had their AK-47s set on burst. They each fired four or five rapid shots, paused, then squeezed off another burst. The bodyguard didn’t scream or utter a word. He died too quickly for that. I heard his body hit the ground.

Abdelrazaq started to shout at Abu Jaafar.

“These people are journalists. They have nothing to do with this. I brought them here. I am responsible. Kill me. Let them go.”

Abu Jaafar said, “Get the gasoline.”

They drenched Abdelrazaq with liquid from a bottle.

“No, no!” Abdelrazaq begged.

“Burn him,” Abu Jaafar said.

They splashed Abdelrazaq with more liquid.

It was water.

They wanted to break us and terrorize us and make us docile. They were having fun doing it.

Abu Jaafar was laughing most of the time. In the coming days we would become familiar with his short, repetitive, girlish laugh: Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.

The doors of the container were closed again. The gunmen left us alone in the back of the truck. We could hear guns being charged outside. AK-47 rounds were chambered and ready to fire.

Now they’ll spray the truck with gunfire and execute us all. 

We all lay down in the truck, hoping they’d shoot over us. My face was pressed against the floor. I tucked my hands under my cheek to get it off the cold, greasy metal. I drifted off to sleep. There’s peace in sleep. Aziz was lying on top of me. I could feel his heat. He was wearing cologne and it smelled good. In sleep I could escape.

Am I sleeping or am I awake? I’ll pretend to stay sleeping. Sleeping is invisible.

To read Engel’s full diary, click here to subscribe and receive the issue.




March 2020

Blog Stats

  • 1,375,622 hits

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by

Join 720 other followers

%d bloggers like this: