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Walter loves to hear Maxwell's read poetry.
It stirs up something inside of him. Maxwell separated artists from others in a quite brutal way - as if life from death. And of course, his version of the meaning of life - even more confusion for Walter, yes, but he now knew there was no meaning. Or was there? Who knows.
Maybe he could be a true artist too, like all of the others he works with and a bunch of the ones visiting. Carla, to whom Walter is drawn to, draws out impressions and impressive sketches. Leonard writes poetry like Maxwell, although it has more of a "logical" structure, everything rhymes and is mostly about nature and women.
But alas, Walter thinks he could never, while drying a plate in self pity. No courage. And no talent, no nothing, only uselessness and an empty head, as some people have said in the past throughout his somewhat limited interactions with others.
Coming back into the scene, Walter steps in his tracks when he sees Maxwell and immediately hears him:
"Walter. I've gotta wonder - you work in such place, a blazing rocket train filled to the brim with the art's exaltation. Why do you never let it escape from the cage, the free, mercilessly locked up cage?"
"Let escape what? What do you mean?" Walter is pretty embarrased by these questions, but then again, he didn't expect this conversation to happen in the middle of nowhere.
"Your life! Your inner artist, that breathes in the fumes of the grieving happiness of tender being."
"I'm not really an artist. I don't think I really know what I am," he mutters the last part.
"That's right. Checkpoint, checkmate, lad! An artist is always on the lookout of searching, a true artist may never find what nobody else can find. Others might claim they have already found it, yet the living admit they have never, will never, and have always found it."
Walter couldn't be any more glad. Maxwell puts his hand on Walter's shoulder and decides to ask:
"Paisley, have you ever done... performance art? I think you are the flesh cut out for the act by the butcher nature itself. Surprisingly, I've never witnessed this form of breath right here, so I've figured you might just be that missing piece!"
No, that couldn't happen. Or could it? But on the other hand, this assumption of Maxwell and mostly the mere fact he seemed to care so much truly warmed his heart and made it beat quicker. Walter smiles while collecting dishes from a table and says:
"No. But I've been trying to sculpt. That sounds pretty nice, though."
"No, no, no, I was in the wrong. I might kill you..."
Walter freaks out by this, not dropping anything because of a miracle:
"What? No, you ain't doing this to me. You can't kill me! There's all these people here and they'll catch you before ya know it-"
"I will not apologize. That would imply I was planning to kill your machine of literal life. What I meant was that I am strangling you with my suggestion which was thrown right at you with no mercy. I shall not shape your way of creation - I am fully against this, so it would burn the unwell wall of logic. Could you tell me, what destruction have I done by interrupting? What was your latest attempt at this way of shaping?"
"Uh..." This was a double serving of embarrassment for Walter. He kept trying for half a night to twist clay into parts that would look like his admired Carla's face, or atleast like something recognizable. But all that happened was the plead "please be (a(n)) nose/eye/head/ear/Carla":
"I've been trying to sculpt a portrait. A head. Of someone."
"Realism?"
"Yeah."
"I should've known. It's too late. I have burned a path to ice."
"No, you were right! I'll try it. You ain't hurting me, you're helping me."
"What one believes, one gets or turns into the ashes of a non-conceptual curtain. You'll do well, busboy, I know it. Now, could you bring me an another espresso?"
"Yes, please. I mean, of course."
"Oh, you cat. What'd ya want? Hm? I don't have a lot, but I think I can getcha some. Wait..." Walter went to the corner of his apartment to pop open a can, and Frankie the cat followed.
"Walter, hello! Sorry for Frankie, he likes to visit. He just had dinner but wants more... what a feisty kitty," Mrs. Swickert said through the open door.
"Oh, hi! That's OK," Walter replied with a smile.
"I'm glad you weren't sleeping. I can't sleep, oh, that headache... Maybe you want to come, I have leftovers and cookies," the landlady suggested.
"No thanks, I've got... some work to do here."
"Alright, Walter. Goodnight, sweet dreams!"
"Night! I hope your headache gets better!" Walter says while Frankie was walking in circles around him. Mrs. Swickert smiled while exiting with the cat in her hands.
Walter didn't know what to do.
So he kept thinking and walking around.
One thought kept coming back in circles.
"That's it. That's what I'm gonna do!"
The next day, Walter was standing next to the stage, waiting nervously with a bag in his hand for Maxwell to finish presenting. Beforehand, he didn't tell the poet what he's prepared, so his words and the scenario was in a jumble, he was too stressed. Maxwell asked Walter if he needed music - there was the saxophone player and Maxwell could improvise on any given instrument. Walter declined, as the things Walter needed were silence (or not, it all depends on the audience) a clothing hanging rack and a chair, which was all set (it was his random choice, but Maxwell and perhaps most of the others definitely saw the deal, to each of their own). He could see Carla waving with a smile, which really helped. Once he realised Maxwell asked him about the name of the piece, he quickly said:
"It's called, uh, "Circles"."
"What is all this about, what's he doing... I don't think I'll be able to watch this. He should be working," Leonard de Santis complained to Carla with a sceptical frown.
"You're being a jerk! Maybe give him a chance for once?"
"Alright, alright... but only because you said it."
Walter could hear claps now. Oh, no.
There's no going back.
He stepped on the stage, back turned to the audience, dead silence. A few murmurs. That's great. Now the only thing left to do is to remember how to. Atleast his mind didn't feel entirely wiped out and he could remember how to start, the rest will happen somehow.
Walter took out the contents of the bag, which were a bunch of small uneven clay hoops. Some were already broken, but maybe that's just how it's meant to be. He took them and hung them up around the rack. And then took a seat on the chair, looking away from it. After a moment, he went back, leaned on the rack, which fell with a thud. He fell to the ground and took a few of the pieces back, trying to rearange them back into the circles. He didn't find them as planned, but maybe he didn't even need to. He moved on and thought "what to do now" repeatedly, while walking in circles. In the blur, his head kept spinning, until he thought - this is how it ends. It should end. He stopped, turned around and formed a circle with his hands.
Walter looked to the crowd. Eveyone started clapping. Everyone. He couldn't believe it. Maxwell stood in the crowd while he shouted:
"Walter is alive! Paisley is alive!"
Woo-hoo's, whistles, toasts, questions and claps throughout. Walter was flooded with all of it. Even Leonard congratulated Walter (although it was doubtful), gave him a handshake. Carla gave him a tight, warm hug and many, many compliments, it would be an understatement to say it felt wonderful for him to receive this from her. Naolia was really intrigued by the concept (and him) and it took quite a lot to make her leave him alone.
Maxwell H. Brock approached Walter again with a grin and asked:
"Walter, are you feeling that tremble, are you hearing that sound of your sorrow and a lonely hill land being crushed into the train tracks of eternal life?"
"Yes."
"Say it again - are you?" Maxwell didn't repeat the question - he forgot.
"Yes!" Walter exclaimed joyfully.
Maxwell hugged Walter and aimed a kiss somewhere near the lips.
"Does... does this mean you... like me?" says a very surprised Walter.
"In your words, yes. But what are those words? All of this traffic here - they all like you. Even Mr. Leonard de Santis."