I was curious what the other "false enemies" of the group, but we'll find out over time. Perhaps Herny and I could start a new versus Rimbaud Verlaine, for example ...
was obvious that members of the workshop were great friends outside of this room and shared his spare time. Without going any further, that weekend was a pair of standing plans: go to the Museum of Fine Arts to see an exhibition on surrealism, and a home visit for dinner Mariela and a movie. It sounded tempting, and I thought I was starting to float between sugary pink cotton when I was invited to both events.
My way to thank such a gesture was talking more about me, but I was so flattered and pampered than done, perhaps too emphatically, almost hurriedly. Henry looked at me with eyes wild.
I confessed how much I liked Santa Clara, and even told them of my theatrical experience Ceará. Henry gave me was like before, I did not care what you think. Even I was tempted to watch him from a Machiavellian standpoint, it told me that the end justified the means. Because maybe Henry was only used to meet the wonderful people that I seemed to be interesting and nice, and I did not have to give myself body and soul to a suffocating relationship. I wanted to believe it was free, no longer needed him, he could fly without it. I wanted to believe, but could not.
-Ana, the course is, will you be in England or plan to attend the race in Bilbao? If you want to study a career, going ... - Patricia turned to me.
That caught me by surprise, but I tried out the best possible stop. Everyone looked at me expectantly, especially Henry:
- Stay here next year? I do not know, but still I have a whole year ahead to see if I like both Bilbao ... As for what to study a career, I do not know exactly what I want to study ... I guess something, say, creative, even my parents I insist to study economics.
-Henry always says he'll get in my world, that of the reviled and thankless Philology. I encourage you to follow the example of your friend, join our cause! Charlotte exclaimed jokingly. Henry looked at me with a mixture of hope and fear that made me conclude that my friend would have appreciated that particular time I said yes, that, indeed, wanted my degree in Philology at Deusto. But I did because it was something I had never crossed his mind.
Someone then announced that we had recently. Classroom closed at six o'clock, and was five and a half, so we concluded the meeting with a creative writing exercise: we had to write to all history, each paragraph that had started writing the person on the left, he wrote a sequel, and passed the companion folio to the right.
Esther started and it took very little time to complete. It was a curious thing: it was the story of a robot after overcoming writer a suicide attempt caused by the abandonment of human to discover his girlfriend is a robot, just working as a professor at the university, where he falls in love again, but this time from a student who, though he did not note, is a robot do not think your teacher is too. But in the end, both discover the true nature of the other, and she does not mind, but he does, and leaves. "It's nothing personal, but I have the habit of leaving only human" is how the thing ended. The suicide attempt was mine, the end of Henry.
When the input fellow came to tell us that they were already six in the afternoon and had to lock the classroom, Carlota me explained that the meeting would follow thereafter in a cafe-restaurant district called Deustoarrak Deusto. Thus, the entire troupe of impending writers we went to that place, located just ten minutes from the university. As I was there in front of a steaming coffee, well ensconced in a plush sofa in dark and with a decent Henry planted beside me (she looked so serene and friendly that I was afraid to be with his twin brother), I knew the moment why it was the perfect place to hold meetings of a group. Decorated in medieval armor, carpets and tapestries garnets, and chaired by a beautiful fireplace, in there there was a feeling have gone back centuries in time and be in a meeting of the Round Table of Camelot, although instead of dealing with matters of a Celtic kingdom, bystanders are dedicated to talk endlessly about everything: politics, literature, film, music, as well as various obsessions and banalities, but always with such passion and enthusiasm that seemed to us to be responsible for deciding the course to be followed worldwide.
In this amalgam of stories, memories and opinions, both Henry and I participate, thus moving away from our pattern of self-conscious adolescents and expectant.
When the warmth of confidence that convinced me treading on safe ground, I ventured to make the case for some of the stories he had written (and unfortunately at that moment I had with me), and the simple narrative of which I thought was something depressing and surreal tales, my listeners seemed to fascinate.
- The next day brings something, Anne, I have wanted to read that story of yours writer who writes books "and issued" by mysterious voices, sounds tempting! - Exclaimed Emilia.
Henry also seemed interested in my creations, and he was encouraged to read us all the last verses he had written the night before (he himself had brought your notebook). And their success was resounding. I never thought that Henry wrote so well, because those poems, despite being a work clearly inspired by the devotion to the Symbolists, picked his mark, something we could only see those who knew him, because those lines transmitting pain and tenderness at a time, despair and darkness, but also some subtle rebellion.
- Stunning, as always, Henry, but you know that I think of dark freckles, I suppose it's old! - Charlotte laughed. And Henry got his praises with shyness and a grateful smile. But not content just to recite his poems, was much more to it than that. He was apparently interested in other things ...
At first I was strange to hear Henry engage in a passionate conversation with James on postmodernity and globalization. But then I could not help but admire. Using strong arguments to defend its position and expressed in a coherent way, maintaining the temple at all times. The child of the Monster was, apparently, a citizen of the world, and all an existentialist, but I already knew. But only there, between the medieval atmosphere of Deustoarrak , I met the amazing theory about how we Enrique Cuervo escape death. Everyone listened stunned as she explained.
As explained Henry, there are three ways to laugh at the lady with the scythe because it is impossible to conquer: the first is to forget that there is not having it in mind for anything, never mentions, as far as possible, of course. The second is to try not to risk their lives for nothing, absolutely nothing to depend on the will of one, or participating in a risky sport, or taking a means of transport other than the legs of one, or taking to the streets a windy day ... (the quality of this kind of life is a separate issue, of course).
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