"I am a moonchild." A voice blasted. "I am a voodoo child." I am looking frantically for a speaker. None.
This is blasting from a chest.
I close my eyes and let the harmonica take over. I know what this is. This is a blessing. This is my initiation.
I can hear the doctor telling him in the other room: "your blood count is low today." The harmonica becomes louder.
The trembling of voice, blood and bones shakes the walls. It's a roar: "I am a moonchild". He sings. The harmonica follows again. The gasps pass through the metal. It's sound. It's rhythm. It's Blues. BlueS is all there is. It never leaves that room.
Stay. Please don't leave me. Blue is all there is.
The harmonica, the man, the blues leave not knowing I am sitting next door. Not knowing I am sitting at the crossroadS. Not knowing I am singing back to him: "You are a moonchild." Not knowing I am singing to myself: "I am too, a moonchild."
11:30AM - Chemo prep room. While waiting for my first infusion.
Postcard purchased during my first visit to MASP - Museu de Arte de Sao Paulo, in 1991.
