She'd listened to all of us. About thirty of us. Then stood tall in all four foot, eight inches of herself and looked at the sky. Then at us.
"Forge that pain, forge that rage!"
About the seventh or eighth time she said it, others started chanting it. People started to move around, clumsy, stupified into pokes of hands into the air, foot pounds in the arroyo.
"What's going on?" A gingerly older man who used to decorate Macy's windows had come out of his house and asked.
"We're going to make a magazine!"
"FORGE THAT PAIN, FORGE THAT RAGE!" Some people started a Congo line.
"We're going to make music!"
Forge that pain! Forge that rage!
"And I'm going to make something of THIS!" A woman held up a burlap bag emptied of its coffee beans.
"Forge that pain, forge that rage!"
Whoops and hollers. "YES! YES!"
"FORGE THAT PAIN, FORGE THAT RAGE!"
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