My Cardboard Balcony

Writing Under The Regime by Belinda Roddie If I scribble controversial stances in the shadows, where no one can see me, and no one can censor me - if I whisper in your ear the monologues that can no longer be enunciated on a stage - if I offered you a crudely made home video of a romance, or adventure, or political scheme that would be deemed too offensive for the powers that be to air to the mad masses - would you watch it? Would you hear it? Would you take the time to read my scratchings on the bedroom walls and letters left in abandoned performance halls? Would you spray paint my message on bathroom stalls and take photos for posterity? If I can't have an audience under this new regime, with their hounds of Hell nipping at the ankles of the artists who remember the days when we were free, then will you at least be there, with me, and listen to my story?

I am perplexed by it all, my man. The anger and confusion regarding the freedoms we've held dear for over two hundred and forty years. I see them raise their arms in a salute that should have been banned almost a century ago. The roars swallow up the stories of good men. The tales of brave women are drowned out by hatred and frustration. The echo chambers are bigger than ever. I am perplexed by it all.