Moving Travel Blog Too...cliffderksen.com

Hi Everyone,

Thank you for your faithfulness in reading my blogs at this site. Unfortunately it has been invaded by the Hebrew language since we arrived in Israel. Despite my best efforts to indicate the problem to Google and/or to continue writing has been a problem. The fun of dealing with it has worn a little thin. It is very time consuming and difficult to do the blogs well and in good time. (you can see how the punctuation is off!))

Therefore I am directing you to my art website for the remainder of our trip and my reports. 

Please go to cliffderksen.com and click on the "My Israel  page for my reports on our trip.

My appologies and Thank you to you all,

Cliff

PS. Looks just crazy hilariousness eh?

The Israel Museum: Day 2

A model of Jerusalem and the temple during the time of Christ.

Today we went to "The Israel Museum of Jerusalem". We walked all the way, about half an hour just before the sun got hot. Already, when we got there we were pretty warmed up so began with a glass of lemonade in the air conditioned museum. On our way we went under a bridge and saw this "Justice" sign, We thought .how appropriate in a country with such justice issues everywhere

This week we happened to hit a

 week where they had advertised kids free. Also a program where the kid make and then then the fly their kites. There were a lot, I mean, a lot, of families and kids at the art gallery.

 Ever since we've connected with Israel, we have been aware of the

 number of children and families everywhere. Even on the plane to 'Tel aviv there were a lot of children. I get the feeling they are not waiting for their fellow Jews to come from around the world, they are doing something about filling their country themselves...by having kids.

It was an awesome day at the Museum. We saw a beautiful and amazing display of Herod the Great, who he was, his building exploits and character Even a bust of his friend Aggripa who interviewed Paul in the book of Acts. Brought things very close to home spiritually. 

There were displays replicating the decor of his palace, walls designs, colors, with amazing detail. Archaeology has come a long way.

The other thing I loved was the model of Jerusalem and the temple from the time of Christ. As archaeological digs show up any new evidence of how things were at that time, they make the adjustments necessary. It was very impressive. You can see that Jerusalem was at that time a "one God" city. No other religions represented only the temple of the living God. It was a very moving experience walking around and snapping photos exactly during sunset. The sun going down in the west and the moon appearing in the east. Awesome.

There was a lot to see, but the other thing I loved was the outdoor sculpture garden. Even though light was fading, I got some great shots. 

Another very moving experience was seeing the "Shrine of the Book". The photo to your right is the roof of this display. This is the home of the renowned Dead Sea Scrolls. What is significant from a providence of God perspective is that these scrolls were found just shortly before Israel became a nation in 1984. Is it not significant that they lost a lot of their important manuscripts when Rome defeated Jerusalem in 70AD, burning the temple and all the scrolls that were in it. Then in 1948 there is this discovery of the scrolls which many here in Israel take as a sign of God showing his approval of them once again being a nation.

During the heat of the day we'd stayed inside the museum and wondered outside only late in the afternoon. Then it was beautiful and we were re-energized for the evening. When we got home we had supper at a street side cafe, eating outside in the warm summer 

 air. It was very interesting as Israel walked past us all evening.

Until tomorrow...

Cliff

Day One, Wilma's Birthday in Jerusalem!

This is a photo of the birthday girl in her Bed and Breakfast room, early in the morning having received her rose, her card and the gift from Frankfort. This is a book of an artist who is now her favorite artist because he's made pieces of art very much like hers. Simple design pieces mostly white or shades of white with texture of some kind or another. He's a minimalist. His name is Manzoni, and according to her "amazing!"

We walked to the Old City, Wilma's goal was to get to the haling wall. We discovered that the streets clearly outlined on the map, are not easy to identify in reality. No matter where we went, every street is a market the product as high as the 

walls and the occasional ceiling. But it was fun

Here's another thing, there are two wedges coming up to the level of each step, about 8 inches wide. These things, besides the uneven stairs happening are "angle biter's"! There is so much to look at it's hard to not roll an ancle on the uneven ground below your feet! 

As we went along we began thinking of here we would eat as it was about time for lunch, when we saw a sign that stopped us in our tracks! See this next photo and guess why? It's the name of  Candace's   favorite song. Well, we just had to go inside. As it turned out we had a great lunch of falafel, pita bread. salad and lemonade. Just what we needed. and then, we were off to to whaling wall.

. 

Here we are at the wall. Wilma was asked to cover her shoulders, which she did with this scarf which she had along. Then we continued towards the wall.Then a gentleman reminded Wilma she had to go to the woman's side, she frowned but away she went. I told the gentleman that my wife was not happy. I think he had sympathy for me and spoke to me about the wall. He explained about how we could write our prayers on paper and place them between the rocks. He showed me where the paper was and how to do it, standing back as I prayed and pushed the paper into the wall. Than he placed a red string around my wrist, tying it saying that I would have more grandchildren. Then he had me place my hand on his scripture text he carried and prayed a prayer in Hebrew over me. When it was all over, I asked if I could photograph him, to which he agreed. I then went off to fine Wilma.

 Now, you need to know I'm having quite a time with setting things up on this blog, with the structure of the writing going from right to left. Anything I do, or especially if I have to make corrections in existing text, well, it is a nightmare and often it's just easier to re-write . Anyways, it's part of the experience right, and we will just go with it. If anyone has an idea on how to right this backward ship, 

let me know.

Later.

Jet Lagged in Israel

 This blog spot it seems has been compromised  Hebrew has invaded this site and will not, it seems, despite my commands for it to translate all into English work from left to right! This is quite a . riot.  Not sure how this will work. 

Above is a map given to us at our bed and breakfast, our bed and breakfast is where you see my finger called "Little House in the Colony. To the South you see the "City of David" and the "Old City" at the top of the map. It is in this area we will be spending most of our time.

Today is Wilma's birthday. It was her birthday wish to step onto into the "Old City" on her birthday. She will get her wish today. I have come to understand she would like a "manora" as a gift.. That is what we will be looking for today. Wish me well.

It's 2:45 or so in Israel as I write this. I am jet-lagged and wide awake. 

It is very weird writing to the right with the curser staying on the left of the line I'm writing. Hope you can all read this on your computers! Later...

The Eaton's Catalog

The Eaton’s Catalog arrived on a Tuesday near the end of July. Geraldine noticed it the minute her father brought the mail in from the mailbox. “Yea,” she yelled running towards her father, “lemme see it, lemme see it…” she murmured as he let it slide out of the pile of mail for her to grab. She held it to herself as she made her way to the dining room table. There she set the huge volume carefully on the table, like she was laying out fine china. This was what she had been waiting for, the delicious moment when she would slowly page through the young woman’s clothing, jewelry and toy sections, examining everything in minute detail. She was not going to be rushed or interrupted. There were important things to see, descriptions to read and dreams to dream.

Mike who was upstairs in his room, heard his father announce it’s arrival to the household, “The Eaton’s catalog is here!” He heard, but could not make out his mother’s reply from somewhere in the house, but he did heard Geraldine’s voice claim first dibs yelling, “I saw it first!” to no one in particular. He was also interested in seeing the catalog but knew it was useless to even try for these two would be hogging it for the next few days.

Every year during the summer, his mother would do her shopping for clothing and items needed for the family for the next school year. This would eventually result in a huge order, which she would prepare under the watchful eyes of each family member.

It was strange how Mike had slowly became more interested in the catalog  but it had very little to do with his choice of jeans he wanted for school. Sure, his mother would ask him about the colours he wanted of this or that shirt and he co-operated for it was for him, really all a cover. He was excited about the arrival of the new catalog but for reasons his family never expected.

A few days later, no one thought it strange for him to ask for the catalog  and to take it upstairs to his room. In fact his mother encouraged him, happy that he finally seemed to be showing some interest in his school wardrobe.  No one had any idea that this was the furthest thing from his mind.

Once he got past the door to the stairs, he burst into a run going up the stairs taking two steps at a time, rushing to get to the privacy of his room and pour over the images like they were banana splits from heaven. He turned to the underwear sections and examined the images in detail. He pulled out his sketch pad, opening it to a drawing he’d just finished. It had been inspired by the experience he’d had seeing his mother in her mirror while he was trapped under his parents bed. It was an image of a woman reflected in a mirror. For him, this was a new kind of work, the best he thought he’d ever done.

Using an outdated Eaton’s catalog he’d found the appropriate image, tore out the page and taped it to the glass of his bedroom window. Then he placed a sheet from his sketchpad over the one taped to the window. This way the window became a “light box” the sunlight making it possible for him to see through his sheet and trace the image onto his drawing paper. He’d make adjustments in the images to fit what he wanted for his drawing, shade them in to get the three dimensional affect and "wa-la" he had a new drawing.

He loved this process for it gave him the opportunity to practice his art. But there was one niggling problem and that was guilt. You see, Mike did attend church and suspected that what he was doing must be somehow sinful. He could not imagine his Sunday school teacher, any of the ministers, or even his parents approving of what he was doing. Yet, his excitement in experimenting and working with these images was too fulfilling and exciting for him to stop. How was he to learn, but by doing? He was and felt literally out of control.

With the success of this particular drawing, he began to take his sketch pad with him almost everywhere he went. Whenever he had time he’d open it to the drawing, study it, and usually make some alterations or improvements. The sketch pad had become something like the t-shirt he’d worn night and day when he was six. 

Therefore when Sunday rolled around he never gave it a second thought, but took it with him when they went to church. There was a whole hour, Mike thought, where he could work on something while the preacher was speaking. What Mike had not counted on was the curiosity and interest or even the malevolence of the other boys that sat beside him in the pew.  

The boys, during the service, all sat near the front of the church sanctuary, so the parents could keep an eye on them. Despite the parents best efforts to have the boys behave, things happened that were never seen or expected by the parents. The backs of the pews were of solid wood. So, the boys learned to keep the action below the level of the top of the bench. Also, their heads and shoulders must always appear to be paying serious attention to the stage. So no matter what happened, weather it was pinching, snapping one another, feats of strength, jokes or anything else boys will dream up, all had to be masked by the body language of "holiness." A body language that never gave away the pain, violence or laughter anyone might be experiencing.  

Once the minister had begun Mike drew his art pad out of his Bible, opened it up to a new page, dug his pencil stub from out of his pocket and began doodling. He began with a drawing of the minister. Then added a Bible sticking out of his left ear. To balance the drawing he began drawing a second Bible sticking out of the other ear. In his concentration, he did not really notice the interest of the guys beside him and halfway through the second Biblical “earplug” his pad was easily jerked away from him and quickly passed several guys down the bench, out of his reach. He immediately realised what a terrible mistake he’d made bringing this sketch pad to church. He knew there were several drawings or outlines of both male and female figures in the sketch pad and knew it would not be long before the guys would find these. It went down the line of boys and yes, they did found them It was after this that all concerns about "holy behaviour" for the sake of the parents went out the window. 

If you were sitting a few pews back you would have known exactly where Mike’s art pad was located in its journey down the pew of boys. There was giggling, pointing, smiling, gesturing, shoulders shaking, heads turning, guys whispering into each other’s ears. There was even elbowing and nudging going on as the guys would point out particular drawings. All of this happening as the pad slowly made its way down the line. One father finally stood up, leaning over the empty pew between him and the boys, and poked his son. Everyone stopped when that happened, but in a few moments it slowly began again, more subdued nonetheless, as the art pad continued its way down to the end of the line.

Mike never did get his sketch pad back. He had no idea, who had actually taken it or where it was. For all he knew it might be under the pew or somewhere in the church, waiting to be discovered by one of the ministers. Mike was sick.

All the way home, Mike was in pain. His mind spinning, wondering where his sketch pad was and who would be seeing it. He knew, that if this fell into the wrong hands, he was done. He would be considered the greatest sinner in the world. The whole church, he thought, would confront him and make a rule that he never draw anything again. This was his greatest fear, he would be forced to give up his art! He was distracted and distraught, waiting for life as he knew it to end.

“What’s the matter Mike?” his mother asked him, turning to look at him from the passenger seat of the car. He was sitting in the back, bent over rocking back and forth, his arms across his stomach groaning as if in severe pain.

“I don’t feel so good.” He said. “Do you have a stomach ache?” she asked concerned.

“Yea,” he said. Then before he knew what he was saying he added, mumbling, “and a head-ache too.”

“I’ll give you an aspirin when we get home.” She offered. “We’ll be home in a few minutes.”

He stayed in his room all that afternoon feeling miserable. When his mother offered to bring him something to eat for dinner, he accepted but pushed most of it away. On Monday, he stayed in his room, his mind creating worse and worse scenarios about what would become of him when his drawings would be found. One was that he’d be driven from the community and from his home. He began to think about running away and living off the land in the willows growing in the cow pasture. He imagined himself living off of rabbits he’d shoot with his slingshot. Possibly sneaking into the barn for night, sleeping on straw in an empty stall or manger. It all seemed like suddenly his life was in ruins and that there was no answer to his dilemma.

By Tuesday he just wanted it to be over. His mind and body were tired and he just wanted someone to find his sketch pad already. He was thinking of confessing admitting his guilt and just taking whatever punishment they would hand out for sinners like him.

It was also on Tuesday that his parents phoned the Doctor to inquire about his health.

That evening Mike suddenly noticed a car drive up the driveway and roll to a stop on the yard. Were these visitors? On Sundays it was an accepted practise for families to come and visit, often without any warning. Who could this be? A few minutes later Geraldine knocked on his door telling him that two of the Ministers from the church were downstairs visiting with mom and dad in the living room and that mom had sent her upstairs. “Finally,” he thought, “they've  found my sketch book and have come to tell me to never draw again.” Then he would have to leave, he’d run away because he knew he could not live without the freedom to draw.

He waited anxiously, sitting, perspiring and rocking on the edge of his bed, waiting for them to call for him. He started at every noise he heard, but nothing happened. Finally the car drove off the yard. He concluded that they had told his parents what they had seen in his sketch pad and that they would now be the ones to tell him that he could never to draw again. He crawled under the blankets and waited for his mother to give him the dreaded news that would end his life as he knew it. 

“How are you doing, feeling any better?” his mother asked breezing into the room with water and some aspirin. Mike was under his blankets, shivering in fear and dread. He waited, but his mother seemed to be much too happy and in no hurry to tell him what would happen to him now that his art had been found.

“Did the Ministers want me to leave?” he finally asked his voice trembling. His mother stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “What did you say?” she asked.

“Did the Ministers want me to leave?” he whispered, “did they want to talk to me?”

His mother was stunned. “Of course not!” she exclaimed, “Why would you even say something like that?” They just came to thank us, your dad and me for how we helped cook meals for that week of meetings we had two weeks ago at the church.” She sat down on the side of the bed and in her kindest voice said. “You know Mike, they said some very nice things about you and Geraldine. They saw that horse you drew, that’s still on the blackboard and they really liked it. They said that you had very skilled hands and that one day you would probably be an amazing finish carpenter and make furniture or kitchen cabinets when you grew up. They like you Mike, and there is no reason for them to ask for you to go away.”

She patted his hand, mussed his hair, kissed him good night and was gone.

They had not found his sketchbook, relief welled up in his heart. He sat up in his bed. Obviously, one of the guys still had his sketchbook, for if it had been left in church it would have been found by now. He began to feel a lot better.

A finish carpenter eh? Why he wondered, a finish carpenter? He’d recently been noticing how many pictures there were in books and papers around him. His reader at school was all full of pictures for each story. Even the church Sunday school books had art in them. Someone must have drawn all those pictures. Why could he not be that person? Why should he be a carpenter when he already was an artist? He was confused. Maybe they had seen his sketch book and this was their ruling? Mmmmm

That line of thought was too hard on his mind. Despite the fact he still did not know exactly where his book had gone, he actually began to see something positive about that Sunday morning. He remembered the expressions of interest, wonder and fun on the faces of the guys as they had passed his sketchbook down the pew, each of his friends looking at his artwork. Not only was that a compliment to him but, he realised, this must have been one of the most fun Sundays his friends had ever had at church, of that he was sure.

“Yes!” he said aloud, pumping his fist. 

The End.

Autobiographical Fiction.

English Gardens, Winnipeg MB

Photo by: Cliff Derksen

July 2013

He's Got Good Evil Bones

The transformation begins, by bulking up his legs.

Transformations, transitions and change are part of life. The man who will sit on the throne of swords is in transition. From wolf to werewolf is what is happening. Why werewolf you ask? Because, like I wrote a while back, wolf is too mild. I want "evil" personified, so werewolf it must be.

As you can see in the photo above, I've dismantled the wolf and am beginning again. He has good bones though, and so I can build on what is, to make him the evil werewolf he must become.

The other thing is, I only have eleven days to finish him. In eleven day's I will be taken up with another adventure that will last about 17 days, so he has to be done before that begins. The reason is that in 17 day's he will be too dry to work on. The pressure is on.

About werewolves. There is a lot of speculation about them, like were did they come from, or that you can only kill them with a silver bullet, etc. But one thing is sure, they are evil. When in human form they may be a good person, but when they turn into the werewolf form they are bad.There is no such thing as a good werewolf. At that point they are no longer in control, no longer human and instincts guide them to attack anything and everything living. Apparently when in human form, they do not recall anything that happened or what they did while in werewolf form. Nice eh?

A lot of information comes from stories and movies that have come out over the years. So the facts are not always clear and have changed over time. Some say they have a soul, some say they do not. Bottom line, Hollywood needed something that personified evil and so created this as a monster, which became the evil, scary violent uncontrollable werewolf of today. That's who I want sitting on my throne of swords! A very evil "thing."

So, please excuse me, but I have to get to work bulking him up and finish him in eleven days. (That's besides all the other things I have to do also, before that time!)

"He devises wickedness on his bed; he sets himself in a way that is not good; he dose not abhor evil." 

Psalms 36:4

English Gardens, Wpg. MB

July 2013

Photo: Cliff Derksen

The Full Length Mirror

Mike wanted to draw people, not cartoon people but real people. He’d done the horse, the rabbit, and the dog thing, but needed to get doing real people right.

Cartoon people were fun and easy because you did not have to worry about proportions. Every part of the person could be any length and thickness, and it did not matter. Actually, the weirder the more laughs he’d get. Kids passing the drawing from one to another, chuckling over it. He knew he’d never stop cartooning, it was his door to “coolness” in the school.

But he wanted to do people so he began to study them, really study them. I mean seriously and carefully. For example, he wanted to know how long the arms were compared to the rest of the person. He wanted to know where on an arm he should place the elbow. He’d tried placing it in the middle, but that looked wrong. He wanted to memorize how the clothing folded and wrinkled when the arm was bent.  

The problem was he already had a reputation for “looking” or as most would describe it, “daydreaming.’ He always wanted his desk near the windows and he’d spend any spare time looking out onto the prairie, the clouds in the sky… “Window Guy” they called him at school.

At recess he’d sit or lie on the ground examining things, like a blade of grass, a root he’d pull out of the ground, or any bug or ant that happened by.

“What ya looken at?” someone noticing him staring at them would say. He’d jerk away, pretending to be busy with something else.

It was embarrassing, that’s what it was. After some thought, he decided that if he was going to learn anything, he’d have to look at himself!

At home, he remembered his mother had a full length mirror, but it was in her and his father’s bedroom. This bedroom this was really off limits for him but he was desperate. First, he needed to scout out the situation and began to peer into the room secretly, from the living room. Even while the rest of the family was around he’d be doing this. Several times he tried, looking real casual as he walked by the door, rolling his eyes sideways scanning the room to catch a glimpse of the mirror. No matter from where he sat, stood or walked, he could not make out where the mirror was actually located. He knew it was there somewhere.

The second thing, was to be aware of everyone’s wareabouts during each aspect of the day. Dad was no problem, since he left the house in the morning and came back only for meals. His mother would leave the house for doing laundry, sometimes doing chores or to weed or pick food for meals from the garden. That would not be hard to figure out. The worst was Geraldine, as she would be present, yet absent, playing in her own world, coming and going without any warning.

The very next Saturday he noticed his mother in the garden, hoeing weeds. He could tell she’d be there a while as the garden was a large one. Dad was out on the field with the tractor, but he’d not seen Geraldine for a while so was not sure where she was. Regardless, he made the decision to go for it and ran into the house with great expectations and excitement.

Holding his scribbler, pencil and eraser, he paused in front of his parent’s bedroom open door. The house was very quiet. No one had ever said he could not go into his parent’s bedroom, yet for some strange reason, it seemed like it was off limits. He stiffened, and stepped through the door. In a second he saw the mirror, it was on the wall next to the door to his right. It was perfect. He stepped in front of the mirror and took his whole image in. He stepped forward. He leaned in, his face an inch from the glass and made a face, his breath fogging up his image. He smiled at himself, bobbing his head back and forth with joy. This would be just fine. He opened his scribbler wondering where to start.

He drew the folds of his clothing as he posed crouching, bending over, bending his arm this way and that. Then he took his shirt off and repeated the poses. He removed his shoes and his pants, posing and drawing. His gitch landed on the floor and more poses were made and drawn. Mike was lost in his element. The afternoon slid by, his whole consciousness being on the model in the mirror, nothing else. So you can imagine his surprise when he began to be aware that someone had come into the house and was making their way from the kitchen into the living room. He also suddenly realized that he was stark naked. His question of how that had come about was interrupted by footsteps coming his way. He knew he could not take the risk of waiting to see if whoever it was, was going to come into the bedroom. He quickly scooped and kicked his clothing along the floor hiding them under the bed. He then threw himself down onto the floor and slithered under the bed into hiding after them, nervously clutching his scribbler in his hand.

From his position under the bed he could see his mother’s feet as she came walking into the bedroom. He did not know she was carrying a bowel of water, a towel and a wash cloth. She closed the door behind her.

Mike stared at the closed door. “She closed the door,” he thought, “I’m trapped, I’ll never get out.” His fear meter began to rise, “Why would she close the door?”

Then Mike got the shock of his life when he saw his mother’s cotton dress land silently on the floor at her feet. Curious, he inched his head forward, he could see her half-slip. He craned his neck a little further, just in time to see her toss her brazier out of his vision and saw, in the reflection of the mirror, his mother’s bare breasts!

He gasped in awe, involuntarily clamping his hand over his mouth. Fear and wonder washed over him, his body slowly moving into a fetal position beneath the confines of the bed. “Should I be seeing this?” he asked himself. Despite his misgivings, he just could not make himself back away and retreat back under the bed.

What he saw next could only be described by Mike as a dance, a ballet of smooth, confident movements as she gave herself a sponge bath following an afternoon of working in the garden during the heat of the day. An arm in the air, the other circling, now quick, now slow. The sound of dripping water as she paused to wrung out the wash cloth. Now the back, now the other arm up, now the front, under over and around. Her sighs of comfort as the water cooled her body. Then she dried herself, again another dance. He was mesmerized watching how the single shaft of light from the window played on the shape and form of her body. Finally, Mike drew his head back under the bed closing his eyes. He knew he’d never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. The images, the light and the shadows, the movements, the dance, the shapes, would be forever etched in his brain. He was trying to reconcile that fact that it was his mother that was so beautiful.

When she was dressed, she left the room taking the bathing materials with her. Mike waited a few minutes, then squeezed himself out from under the bed and peeked out the door across the living room and into the kitchen. He was hoping his mother would just go out of sight so he could make a break for the upstairs door and up into his room without being seen. He stepped across the open door to the other side and snuggled up into the clothes closet still peeking out to monitor his mother’s movements. But, then he heard her coming fast. He had no time to scoot back past the open door, to get back under the bed, he was sure she would spot him. Instead, he pressed himself into the depth of the closet, between the clothes. She was into the room before he could get the closet door totally closed, so to make sure she would not see his feet he reached up, grabbed the metal hanging rod and lifted his feet off the floor.

He could feel the rod bend as he added his weight to that of the clothes already hanging from the metal rod. He tried not to move. He prayed his mother would leave the room…quickly! She came to the closet and held his breath as she shuffled some hangers about.  When she withdrew he could feel his sweaty hands slipping, and took the occasion to “re-grip.” An action that involved lifting himself up quit quickly, then with the bounce, re-gripping the rod more deeply. The end of this bounce brought more than his full weight back down onto the rod. It was this maneuver that did Mike in. Mike realized his mistake to late, the rod groaned and gave way. He went down to the floor in a dramatic crash, entangled in his mother’s and his father’s clothes.

His mother kind of squeaked at the sudden commotion in her closet. Mike remained motionless and silent. She slowly opened the closet door and saw an arm, a leg and the tussled hair of her son’s head among the pile of clothes heaped at the bottom of the closet. “Mike, is that you?” she exclaimed in surprise, “what are you doing in here?”

It took a moment for Mike to untangle himself, but when he did, he was reminded that he was still stark naked and took off, his bare feet squeaking on the smooth floor, running for his life, across the living room towards the upstairs door. As he gained momentum half way through the living room he saw his sister Geraldine directly in his path, too late, he crashed into her and they both landed sprawling on the floor. His bare skin protesting as he slid to a stop. Time stood still as the two looked at each other, limbs akimbo on the floor. Then Geraldine’s expression began to change into a slow developing grin. Her eyes widening. Mike realized he was totally exposed sitting there in the buff facing her on the floor. He involuntarily jerked his legs together, knowing full well it had been too late and she’d seen it all. He tried to rise from the floor while covering himself but ended up struggling to his feet in a most embarrassing way. He tried to walk in a dignified manor towards the upstairs door to get out of sight. Just as he got there, he heard his sister’s taunting voice. “I saw you Mikie, she giggled, “I saw you!”

Even though it wasn’t evening or bedtime, Mike just had to cover his nakedness, quickly slipping under his blanket, relieved he was finally covered. There he lay, trying to understand what had just occurred, running through the events again and again.

Sketching himself in the mirror, hiding under the bed, seeing breasts for the first time, crashing into his sister… who would probably tease him forever.

Then he remembered that his clothing were still under his parent’s bed! If his mother discovered them or even asked why he’d been naked in the closet, he decided that he could tell her about drawing himself, posing in the full length mirror.

It would be good, he thought, to talk to somebody about this new obsession, this need to draw, and so to understand the shapes and forms of the physical human body. Could he talk to his mother? Would she understand?

He did not even understand it himself. But he did know he just needed to draw.

The End.