Palimpsest

The Parody Battle Ends Here

THE

PARODY BATTLE

Ends Here.

^{(letters may or may not continue)}

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“Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.”¹_{Ovid, Metamorphoses}

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Jove decadent by Ramon

Enter Chorus

It is the 21st. I made a promise, yet I find myself standing at a loss on how to address it and unsure of what to offer. You challenged my wit with your last epistle, and for a moment, I prepared to sharpen my blade and return the favour; the thoughts were there, extremely ready, a weapon I know how to wield too well (as I am a person of memes). I could continue the chain of mockery and play the game of parodies until we both begin to hate it. But your words, even in parody, held awe that disarmed me. I decided, then, to put down the thoughts that led to it.

I ask what can I offer?
I possess no gold, no heavy stone,
No monuments to decree.
I have only the humble currency of words,
and the meagre sparks of words and wits.
To write of the tumult of the world—
of politics, of corruption, of death, or deeds,
Seems a task too vast and vague to me.
Such liberty, in its boundless state,
brings forth a chaos that serves only to warn the soul.
Therefore, I shall retreat from such heavy themes,
And offer thee, instead,
The sincerity of my esteem.

Chorus exits.

Scene-I

Wandering

After a walk home that stretched far beyond my usual measure, I paced the street five times over, seeking to understand the day. Then returned to my armoury to sharpen my blade, preparing for a battle that felt both distant and inevitable. With each rub and shine, Lazarus stirred and said:

Enter Lazarus

Dramatically oppressed, declared and agreed,
But if not for it, who would have heard the plea,
This world that doesn’t listen to the silence,
Doesn’t care for remains, 
Doesn’t hold the ashes of the fallen,
Hurrah! modern time it is,
And art is an exaggeration of the living.
So, not content merely making a scene, 
Now wants to act, be deeply dramatic in its deeds,
Laughing at the thoughts germinating within me.
Pity, I had to lull his spirit to sleep,
For the world is not yet ready, 
For that kind of freedom yet,
Lest the world suffer a tragedy.
A premature awakening in times as fragile as these,
Is a chaos too bright for eyes accustomed to the dim,
So, I tuck that fire away,
Let us hold it for the bigger thing that is in waiting.

Lazarus exits.

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Scene-II

Freedom that binds

We are caught in this splendid freedom, aren’t we? This boundless space where everything can be said, and because everything can be, the silence threatens to swallow the meaning. It is a chaos that warns us, a tic in the footing. It is as beautiful as it is dangerous. So, I retreat.

Enter friends

Yes, this dear friend has fallen — the irony is not lost on me. The last four months and especially this week have shown me how fondly people can move through this space. It came as a revelation, teaching me how swiftly a heart may open. I have found myself falling for the goodness in those “of good repute” with whom I have shared these conversations. In spirit, I walked by your side, and in our shared laughter, I found a warmth that matches the brightness of my reality.

They exit.

Enter I

A name has been bestowed upon me, a cherishable deed that now sits upon my list. Lazarus may not have awoken, but truly, though not in the poise of a saint, yet an awakening akin to his rising. Dealing in intangibles, felt most keenly, chose a land that is “still.” My contribution here is small but sturdy, the jester’s bell to lighten the mood, and the stone for those who come across me. If asked which pleasure to choose, to read or to write. I will choose the reader’s joy. Writing is but the third of my gifts, which has jumped to first, and I am bewildered, even though it doesn’t seem as much.

Today I hit the wall,
A barren field.
What can be sown for a worthy harvest?
I am a reader who absorbs life,
Not one who critiques it.
I don’t write because I need to,
But because I feel the weight of it.
A default state of being I cannot escape.
I jumped into this challenge
As a way to gather what has gone stray,
To keep myself from drifting too far on the way.
It has been exhausting,
I am not used to this pace,
But perhaps the toll is the whole point of it.

I exit.

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Enter Narcissus

I have spent these days walking in the shade of your thoughts. You have become a shoulder-to-shoulder companion in parody and satirical prose. And yes, my complaints and grievances, don’t consider them as taunts, but as evidence of my regard. For when I cease to care, the silence shall be absolute. Until that hour, my complaints are but a testament to my devotion, in the form of commotion.

I visited a junior’s art exhibition today, and a thought landed in me:

Do you think,
Anything truly compares to Eudaimonia?
I won’t compare, it’s not my style,
But I am in complete awe of it,
It’s a rare find.

Standing there,
surrounded by the work,
An idea struck:
What if your writings were displayed like that?
Not just buried in scrolls or screens,
But hung like a charter,
Something you could touch,
Something you could walk past and feel.
I found myself wondering,
About the arrangements of a banner flex,
A printout of words made manifest,
A permanent place for thoughts,
That usually vanish at 3:00 AM.
Perhaps that is the harvest.
Not the parody,
Not the sharp sword,
But the simple, desperate desire,
To etch the words.

Narcissus exits.

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Scene-III

Praise

I see the picture that you draw. I somewhat see the shadow alongside the walk, when followed. I have christened you with names — nut, tyrant, friend — yet beneath each, there remains a deep and abiding fondness. And I have respected you with the same breath.

Conjuring Narcissus

To collaborate with you is an honour,
Do you know that? 
Like to walk beside a sovereign. 
It is no exaggeration to say, 
That I see the crown resting on your head. 
I see in you the making of a master of letters, 
King of the written word. 
This is no idle flattery born of affection, 
But my words don’t need their assurance,
I’m confident in what I see.
An observation of your hard work
Who is thoughtful of his needs.
If the public remains blind,
If they continue to devour 
The gibberish of the day, 
While ignoring the scripture of your labour, 
Let them. 
You are not writing for the veiled, 
But for the storm that comes after.

Exeunt.

I have loosened a bit of reins, so my thoughts, not wild but true in their place, may reach you without restraint. I have nothing but gratitude, stripped of all pretence for all.

-End-

P.S. “O quam gravis est scripture pondus: oculos caligat, dorfum flectit, renes et pectus frangit, totum corpus nocet.”² _{Florentius of Valeránica}

1. “Everything changes, nothing perishes,” or “Everything is changed, nothing is truly lost.”

2. “Writing is excessive drudgery. It bends your back, dims your eyes, and breaks your ribs”

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Third in the chain:
1. An Ode to Narcissus by Hiritika
2. Eudaimonia by Narcissus