In his article, Brand reflects on his interview with Jeremy Paxman, in which he is queried on his unorthodox political stance of complete abstinence from voting altogether. Claiming that, contradictingly, the current system is too flawed to warrant his attention and the economic disparity between the rich and poor is something to be immediately addressed. Brand comments in the article that his interview was commended because he had “articulated what they” presumably meaning the public who share his views, “were thinking”. This is perhaps true, but the points stated are nothing innovative, and have been articulated many times before, however the main difference between Brand and those who have also spoken his views is the guileless manner in which he voiced his, and to an extent my own, views on the bizarre runnings of this country.

It is very easy to take up arms alongside Brand, especially when he talks of politicians such as Boris Johnson “simpering under a makeup brush” which portrays a very vivid picture of the insincerity associated with politics. As a person who is not yet allowed to vote, I am discouraged immensely as Brand gives his take on how “The only reason to vote is if the vote represents power or change. I don’t think it does.” And that “We deserve more from our democratic system than the few derisory tit-bits tossed from the carousel of the mighty when they hop a few inches left or right” the emotive language creates a feeling of being robbed of a functioning government, and more importantly one of powerlessness to change that; Brands emotive language is akin to that of propaganda in prose and in effect.

Brand’s article, while maintaining an aloof composure within his writing, makes very direct and serious arguments, calling democracy as a whole “irrelevant” and that “it is our responsibility of be more active if we want real change” these rather contradictory statements occur in the very same paragraph. It seems that Brand encourages both passive protest of the government through abstinence and a simultaneous, radical revolution. Or perhaps the more likely alternative, that Brand wants an article to be agreeable to those dissatisfied with the government, of which there is a large amount, and one that will draw positive publicity to him.

Brand also seems all too eager to place the blame solely on the politician’s shoulders, which in part is a fair verdict. It is undeniable that the governments acts have not been with the whole interest of the people they “serve” as Brand puts it, but as much as “it’s their job to be serious” it cannot be said that citizens have no responsibility for the country they live in; we’ve passively condoned their behaviour for a multitude of reasons, perhaps the most difficult to come to terms with is that we are not so fervent in our dissatisfaction that is gives us cause for wanting change, let alone acting to create change in the near future. It seems that Brand, for a lack of a better word preys upon this token desire for democratic amendment, but neither Brand nor his sympathisers have reform on their agendas.

Why is Jem crying?

Jem is traumatized because he has figured out that Boo Radley was the person who has been leaving the gifts for Scout and him. The hole that has been cemented up means that Boo’s only communication with the outside world has been cut off, and Boo has likely been punished, as this is a difficult concept for a child to interpret Jem cries because of this, likely as he is empathetic toward Boo Radley.

Source:  http://youtu.be/571BuZeeQjE

Summer is drawing to a close, and Dill is due to return home. Scout and Jem spend one last day with Dill, in which their curiosity over the Radley residence once again becomes the topic of interest. The three sneak into Mr Radley’s garden, trying their best to be quiet, however as they reach the front porch, they draw the attention of Mr Radley, who fires a shotgun round into the air to scare them off. This loud sound draws a crowd outside the house, meanwhile the three scamper away fearful for their lives. Scout and Dill are the first out of the garden, but Jem gets his trousers caught in the wire fence and has to part with them to escape. To avoid looking susicious, they rejoin the crowd, on which one of the Finch’s neighbors is suspicious as to why Jem is without pants. Dill however quick wittedl says that he won them off him by gambling, this was a shocking as gambling was frowned upon, but much less so than the activities they had been involved in. Jem however, tries to sneak back into the garden to retrieve his pants, as he did not want to break his trust with his father. This bewilders scout, as Mr Radley said the next time someone trespassed onto his property he would kill them. Jem shakes off this warning as his pride urges him to retrieve what he left on Mr Radley’s fence.

“Wordlessly, he held up his pants. He lay down, and for a while I heard his cot trembling. Soon he was still. I did not hear him stir again.”

“

Scout, Jem and Dill’s improvisation of The Radley’s life relents and the three play other games. Their neighbor, Miss Maudie is benevolent enough to allow the trio to play in her garden, and it is in this that Scout and Miss Maudie discuss the popular topic of Mr Radley, of which everyone appears to hold their own opinion; “You know old Radley is a foot washing baptist-“

Scout and Jem are relived from school as the summer arrives, and are reaquianted with their friend Dill who returns to Alabama. The three grow ever more curious about the Radley’s, and when Scout accidentally finds her way into the front yard of the dwelling she hears omnious laughing from within the house. Jem, in an attempt to seem brave invites his accomplices to role play the rumours their have heard about the Radley’s, however Atticus catches wind of this and warns them against this. Dill and Jem remain outwardly unphased, while Scout is very peturbed by the recent events;

” I was fairly sure Boo Radley was inside that house, but I couldn’t 

prove it, and felt it best to keep my mouth shut or I would be accused 

of believing in Hot Steams, phenomena I was immune to in the daytime.”

In chapter 2 Scout finds herself in unfamiliar territory on her first day at school. Her teacher, Miss Caroline Fisher is immediately disaprovent of Scout, as her literacy is said to conflict with Miss Fisher’s new teaching style of the Dewey Decimal system. At  lunch time, Miss Caroline tries to lend money to a student named Walter Cunningham, but the boy declines as he is unable to pay him back. This is explained by Scout to the teacher, causing her a deal of embarrassment. We also learn that Miss Caroline is not well respected by her fellow colleagues as other teachers interact with her in a irreverent manner.

In chapter 1 of To Kill a Mockingbird the story begins from the perspective of a young girl named Jean Louise Finch, known as Scout, who lives in a rural town in Alabama, 1930’s. She lives with her older brother, Jem, her father, Atticus and their cook, Calpernia. We later are introduced to their neighbor, a small boy the same age as Jem named Charles, but is known by the name Dill. Their bounds in which they are allowed to play are subtended by a house in which the Radley’s dwell, a family who are regarded are pariahs of the town and little is known about their professions or lifestyles. We are told Mr Radley has one son, little is know about the boy apart from that he was associated with a local gang of teenagers like him who were caught vandalizing public property and has not been seen since. Dill is intensely curious about the Radley’s and dares Jem to try to get Mr Radley to come outside of his house, Jem is reluctant and they settle for him touching the Radley’s front door. No response is seen apart from a shutter in the window open and close.

Christoph struggled to make sense of it all. His body lay limp on the floor as the lift lowered him back to the ground floor; the effects of the drug were begging to take effect. He closed his eyes, trying to collect himself. If he could just get home and leave this all behind, maybe it would blow over. No, he thought. That was a naive thought; he was now accomplice to the murder of the most powerful person in the world, there was no walking away from this. The elevator dinged, announcing he had reached the ground floor, daylight forced its way through reluctant cracks in Christoph’s eyes. The doors slide open. It took him a moment to process the sight he saw before him. Christoph’s heart both sank and jolted; the lobby that had been swarming with people not 20 minutes ago was now silent. Blood flecked the ground and walls, bodies littered the pristine marble floor, their torsos sprayed with bullets. In the center of the lobby, walking with an eerie calmness toward Christoph was the mysterious man dressed in black.

Christoph mustering all the strength he could, scrambled to his knees, but lost his balance and fell out of the lift clumsily onto the floor. “Relax, Mr Newter. If I wanted you to come to harm I would not of written you that helpful note.” The man explained.

Christoph felt angry, for the first time since he was entangled in this debacle he felt genuinely angry. He had not wanted to play any part in whatever cause the events that had transpired were trying to achieve. He did not want to murder anyone, or lose his friend. And yet he had been thrown into the center of things. “So. What are you?” Christoph said scornfully, “Terrorists? Insurgents?” He questioned, his hands balling into fists. The man laughed, “No-no, I do not believe I am any of those, nor are my followers. We might be likened to something in the way of…divine intervention…” The man replied.

“DO NOT GIVE ME THAT.” Christoph screamed, “You are not gods of any kind! You are not holy or invulnerable I have seen one of you die! You are corrupt politicians at best and cowards!” Christoph vented, shaking with rage but his eyes watering. “If we can be killed, why does that not make us gods? Are we not able to create and destroy? Do we not preside over this world? The ground you are lying on is built in the name of a god, this very building serves as a temple. Just because we are not immortal does not mean we are not at least in some way akin to the gods.” The man versed, his usual expressionless face gave no indication of his intentions.

“We. You say ‘we’ as if you are a god also.” Christoph pointed out. In his internal rage he had not fully connected the disjunct dots in his mind. The man laughed.

“Christoph, I thought it was obvious; I am Hades.”

Christoph froze, his anger extinguished he could only stare speechlessly at the figure dressed in black. “W-”

“Why?” Hades interjected “That is a longer story than I care to get into, but it is fair to say many people other than me wished death upon the totalitarian rule the ‘Advocates’ had over this dominion. Your friend Arty was one of them…although in the end he failed in his job. Either way deliveries today have been made to each of the remaining advocates, some couriers knew of the contents of the packages, some, like you, did not.” Hades explained.

“So what now?” Christoph asked, beyond shock or surprise.

Hades let out a smile for the first time since Christoph had run into him,

“It’s a new world, Newtie. Try not to get in my way and you might end up alive.” Hades turned and walked toward the doors, Christoph tried to struggle to his feet but fell. “The pill I gave you should wear off soon; nothing serious just an emetic and a weak sedator. I have some loose ends to tie. Some of the advocates are alive and I need to fix that.

Goodbye, Christoph.”

Christoph watched Hades walk out the door onto the street, he tried to keep his eyes open but their weight was too much and fell out of consciousness. To awake in a new changed world.

The sun flees behind the horizon, and I have an hour at best. Each time I come here, I am able to remember all of it, the entire tribulation splays itself out onto my mind from every life I’ve ever lived in every instance, and its overwhelming. But I am starting to notice patterns, rules, things that make sense, and its reassuring. I feel like I am closer to an answer than I was before and I am taking refuge in this. I suppose this log, or journal or whatever you may call it is another way for me to keep myself sane. Piecing together these events will let me look for subtle differences, minute clues that will allow me to shake free this wretched curse.

I know few things, but what I do know is there is always a throne, and through usurpation or inheritance I am placed on it. And there is always an insurgent, who overthrows the crown and takes control.

And through abstruse means both die at the hands of the other. In their dying moments they are both granted a second chance, the king offered a simple peasant life, and the rebel offered birth into a noble bloodline. In desperation they accept, after all, no one wants to die.

And thats how I have ended up traversing this fathomless desert land, the medium between my past life and the next. Only to swap positions and become the insurgent who murders the king, and then to switch once again, ad infinitum.

Only, I plan to make things go differently this time.

Ouroboro, thats the name unless my memory fails me. The name of the man who first presented me with the ultimatum. I am perhaps hasty in referring to him as a man. Or as anything as tangible as a man at all. What is known is he appeared, just before I was destined to leave this world, and “granted me a second chance”  as it was put to me. I suppose in a way it was as such, but I was a fool in believing my fate was not set in stone inexorably. This endless desert stands as an in-between, an intersect between my last life and my next. Although both will cause me to end up traversing these sands once again. But as I say, I intend to change my fate.

I cannot say how exactly I am planning on escaping from this cyclic reincarnation, or at least I cannot put it into words. I am certain that these sands are where Ouroboro presides, and even more certain that he is watching me write this entire thing.

Perhaps.

Wait, did I just write that?

Technically, yes. But I am the one who made you write it.

What is going on? I have no recollection of writing that. This is bizarre…

It seems you are a little slow on the uptake. I was under the impression you were somewhat astute, especially as you have figured so much about me.

This is absurd. I am not going to dignify having a conversation with myself on a notepad.

Suit yourself.

Wait. So you are Ouroboro?

Nothing gets past you, mortal.

What are you?

I don’t think that is important now.

Why is that?

You will forget everything you have learnt when I reincarnate you.

All the more reason for you to unreservedly answer all my questions.

I think you are grossly overestimating how much power you have over the situation.

If you haven’t come to answer my questions, why engage in this séance in the first place?

Why not?

So you’re just here to mess with my head.

Again; perhaps.

So an omniscient immortal being has nothing better to do than to screw with the mind of a man alone in a desert?

Who said I was omniscient?

Educated guess.

Are you?

No. But I am a darn lot smarter than you.

Oh, I get it now.

What?

You want to know what my plan is.

I don’t care what your plan is, it’s not going to matter in about 20 minutes anyway.

I bet it’s killing you.

That would imply I can be killed.

I should probably note how surreal this is.

What? That I am possessing your subconscious in order to communicate with you? Or that you’ve used over half the ink of that quill pen.

Both.

Eh. This situation is rather mundane for me.

Do something then.

What?

You’re some kind of deity, correct? Then do something godly. Put on a show.

How unimpressive.

I don’t need your validation to prove I am godly.

Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not going to work.

So lame.

I do not have to prove anything to you. Enjoy your next life you antagonistic wretch.

Hmph. Spoilsport.

I think he is gone. Well as gone as an omnipresent being can be. At least now I can try to concentrate. If I felt thirst in this demi-deceased state , I might have been able to blame my lack of focus on dehydration, but I am only barely keeping my cool about getting on the wrong side of a malicious deity. A feat I consider quite admirable, especially as keeping one’s cool is a desert is difficult enough as it is. Either way, in-between lives I’ve spent a great deal of time negotiating these flaxen dunes, I have yet to meet the one other man who shares the same fate as me.

But now it seems I am closer; after traversing this desert for hours, I’ve finally found footprints that aren’t mine.