The Memories of the Silent Eye.
In the near darkness, the woman’s right hand came gently down on my shoulder from behind. It was the signal that she was ready, that we could begin either the bravest or the stupidest thing we’d ever attempted.
It was April 2013. Sue Vincent and I were about to sing the opening of a temple ritual drama. Sitting on a small stool in front of her, I took a breath and let my fingers rest on the nylon strings of the Spanish guitar…
We were on our own, as Troubadours had often been, in history, conveying their truths as songs.
Around us in the half-light, lit only by a few electric candles and one small real flame in a glass lantern, around thirty people were pretending to be asleep, their heads nodded downwards, The hoods of their robes were pulled up…
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