sock the monkey vol. two
DESCRIPTION
Sock the Monkey is a Rockford, Illinois based publication highlighting the work of local artists.TRANSCRIPT
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Sock the Monkey Volume Two
Joseph Altamore, Heather
Crawford, Eric Danhoff, Jessica
Diaz, Moses Fidal, Aurora
Harkleroad, Angela Hiss, Ty
Kiatathikom, Graeme Lithgow,
Demetrius Markham, Jim Phelps,
Eric Relman, and Ronnie Thompson
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Your heart belongs to the
Midwest
—Warren Franklin
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Contents
Serenity 30
Interviews
datagirl 22
Pages Per Content 33
Phoenix Traders 8
Bon Appetite
Edible Flowers: An Alphabetical
Guide 35
Elderflower Popsicles 40
Floral Spring Rolls 37
Poetry & Prose
Ain’t No More God Damn Kids 18
A Made Up Story About April in
Rockford, Concerning Smug
Literary References and
the Transitory Nature of
Our Human Connections 4
Dreamscape (Excerpts) 11
I Wrote This One at the Write-In
You Missed (Katie's Cup) 20
letters to the unborn 30
Savages 5
Selections from Bad Haikus 7
Too Old to Robo Trip (Domo
Arigato) 19
The Chant of the Doves 28
Visual Art
Colored Progression 11
Eccentric Emotion 4
Norland Valley 20
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A Made Up Story About April in Rockford, Concerning Smug Literary
References and the Transitory Nature of Our Human Connections
The day was a god-dam dry one, but we walked anyway
We decided to hide in alleys -smoked cigarettes and talked about fate
It was all bullshit and it was all over
Our lives were breaking apart
But it wasn’t rain that fell
The universe exploded out of nothing one day, and there was no rain
“Eccentric Emotion” by Demetrius Markham
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Remember that time I dropped my lighter and you picked it up?
I hope ravens eat your liver
It’s time to leave, but it is so hot no one wants to move
Let’s bake here until hell freezes over and Judith pitches a tent a county over
Maybe next time there’ll be rain
—Ronnie Thompson, 29
Savages
Our boats broke against the beach
We our savage
Iggy Pop sings in the trees
We had a life for lust–turn down the stereo
Fennario is that way—forward march
We are savage
Rapiers gleaming, we satin handed mud banks for alters and cashed in all our internet
currency for pears and Code Red Mountain Dew
Anything to survive the winter
We are savage
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We left our wives on the boat
We’ll need the woods for fire
We are savage, but something is growling in the dark
We’ll need the woods for fire
We are savage
We are scared
Smoke blinds our eyes
Palms burst like the Fourth
Can I hear a Sousaphone, or am I going crazy?
We all laughed, but we are savage and something is growling in the dark
Boat used
Wives gone
We should have stayed home.
Something is growling in the dark.
—Ronnie Thompson, 29
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Selections from Bad Haikus
1. There is a Jeep Rubicon parked in the driveway, and I am declaring war.
My armaments consist of a princess Diana disposable camera, and a stainless steel fork.
I’m declaring war on fiddles, and not taking words seriously.
Spilling from shadows; a pair of smiles
The secret lives of shades of red and times of day: passing on, and grinning all the same.
They’ve heard our loud sounds and misplaced steps come unhinged, and flowering.
Are these ages rolling past?
2. Simple things spoke, and found themselves drowned in the river.
Ankles pierced and left for wolves.
No home to go back to, no eyes to see
Winding ways among the wilds, and the voice of god
Never hand held up to bloodied alter, but dust still.
But dust - Alone now.
Own tears for sisters, and strangers for the fallen
We’re not sorry
—Ronnie Thompson, 29
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Incense and Satire: An
Interview with Jim Phelps of
Phoenix Traders
Sock the Monkey: What is the
overall mission of Phoenix Traders?
Jim Phelps: Our overall mission is
to import really cool textile
products for our retail customers.
We sell around the U.S. and are
Rockford’s only import store where
the owners travel and buy these
items and bring them back to you!
STM: Tell us about PT’s origins.
JP: LOL, unemployment. One of the
owners was having a hard time
finding a job and created a career as
an importer. The store followed one
year later as we realized we had
only three local stores we were
wholesaling to and none of them
carried any depth of our products.
The exterior of the shop, which is located at 215
7th Street
STM: What is the importance of
small businesses in Rockford?
JP: Small businesses support the
community by providing local color
and exceptional products that you
cannot buy anywhere else in big box
stores. They contribute to the health
of the local economy by keeping the
money they earn here and spending
it locally. This constant reseeding of
local money, in turn, creates the
opportunity for other businesses to
sprout and grow and hire local
workers. We all gain by supporting
our local economy first!
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STM: You wrote the forward for
Michael Kleenl's Secret Rockford.
Furthermore, you sell a collection
of other local books. What impact,
if any, does Rockford based
literature have on the city as a
whole?
JP: In that forward, I explained in
satirical detail the failure of local
thinking to accomplish a project
because those in charge had
myopic vision and purpose. This is
a constant problem in the region
and it leads to predictably bad
results for our citizens.
We do sell local books and poetry
from local writers: Heath D.
Alberts, Dave Block, Asale Lara,
Sarah Scharnweber, Thomas V.
Vaultonburg, Jenny Mathews,
Jesus Correa VII and C.J.
Campbell.
STM: Which PT items do you
recommend?
JP: Well, I recommend you try our
extensive incense collection, the best
in 30 miles or more. We also have
candles and oils. And if you are
looking for kewl boho gear, we have
that covered.
Phoenix Trader’s charming interior
STM: What are the most popular
items?
JP: Beside our incense, our bags that
we import from around the world are
very popular. Our winter gear, like
hats, gloves, mittens, glittens and
scarves sell very well, too.
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STM: Opening up PT was in itself
a deliberate initiation of the
improvement of Rockford. What
else needs to be done to better the
city? How do you suggest
Rockfordians go about attaining
that goal?
JP: Well, my best advice to anyone
is go ahead and pursue your
passion here in Rockford. Talk
about an unbelievably great place
to start just about anything. With a
dearth (lack of things) just about
any stick you plant in the ground
will grow to be a Redwood before
long. One thing young people can
do is to hold their elected leaders
accountable for bad decisions. And
praise them when they make
smart decisions. I would
encourage Rockfordians not to
give up on their city but make a
solid effort to make incrementally
small positive steps that will in the
long run make things better. Start
with your home, your block and
your neighborhood first, rather
than take big swings (baseball
metaphor) for the fences. Get
runners on base and move those
runners around to make runs. This
is how ball games and change
happens. One batter, one citizen at
a time.
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Excerpts from Dreamscape
For the past year or so, 16-year-
old Ty Kiatathikom has managed
to juggle novel writing among his
extensive school-work and extra-
curricular. The fruit of his labors,
Dreamscape is a currently ongoing
serialized novel published online
by JukePop Serials. It tells the
story of an unsure-of-himself
college student in Manhattan as he
unravels the mystery of a girl he
sees in his dreams, his bookworm
of a neighbor, and two strange
twins who
appear at his door one day.
Excerpt One — Prologue
"Hey," I said, to the girl in my dreams. "Did you know?"
A hill of swaying grass on a cool summer night. The sky clear of clouds, filled to the brim
with countless colorful stars. The gentle hum of insomniac wildlife in the undergrowth,
the moon full and bright and gentle, and nothing but fields of tall violet grass as far as
the eye could see. It was a wonderful place. It was the world of my dreams.
Colored Progression by Demetrius Markham
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That world was so familiar to me, as I'd seen it often before. The same could be said for
the girl sitting beside me, the skirt of her white dress fluttering in the breeze. Lying in
the grass on the side of the hill, sharing with me the speckled night sky. Every time I
wandered to this place, she was there; every time I awoke in this place, she too awoke
there.
Sometimes I would call her my ghost, other times my muse. Her face was always
concealed just out of my sight, hidden in the shadows of the tall grass, shrouded in her
long, dark hair that ran down to her shoulders. I always spoke to her, but she never
spoke back to me. She never did much. She always just lied there, listened to me,
listened to the summer wind, listened to the animals in the night.
She was the faceless girl whose face I had never seen.
She was the voiceless girl whose voice I had never heard.
Without turning to face her, I continued to speak.
"I was alone again today."
And then I fell back to lie on the cool grass and think for a while.
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Often when I was alone I would think about what it meant to be alone. Since I was more
often alone than not, this means I was able to spend a lot of time thinking about how
things like that were. Things like joy and sadness, and hunger and thirst, and the
beautiful way that fear and being alone work together to rule over your dreams.
I was alone without fear and alone with everything in the world to fear, both at the same
time. This was not good for my health. Living like that — with my fragile thoughts left in
the void between bravery and cowardice. With things how they were, it didn't take long
for the true nature of loneliness to make itself clear to me. Even at the young and
heartless age of 18, it was all as clear to me as stars were clear in the night when life
went quiet.
Or should I say, in the night when life became even quieter than it already was during
the day.
It was always during the night that my mind would wander back to thinking about how
empty things really were, and about how they had become like that. I would fill my mind
with thoughts about where everything had come from, and where everything would be
in the future to come.
And when I was ever just on the point of falling asleep at night, I would clear my mind.
Dump it out; pull the plug and drain it out like it was one big ocean of forgotten
memories. I would return it to a state of clean, liquid purity, an empty ocean in which I
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knew nothing and nothing knew me. It was the only way I could ever get myself to
dream.
I was a big fan of Hemingway back then. He had this really beautiful way of discovering
with his words how empty life was, and of teaching how that emptiness in itself was the
most beautiful thing in the world. To him, everything meant nothing and nothing was
beautiful, and so everything was beautiful.
From him I gleaned for a long time what I thought to be the meaning of life on Earth.
But there was one thing about Hemingway that I had always disagreed with. He said this
once. Or, he wrote it. In A Farewell to Arms. Partway through the book he wrote the
words: 'Night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.'
But I had to disagree.
For me, the night was the best time to be lonely, because in the night everyone was
alone. Even if they were not lonely, everyone was alone. Even if everyone was loved,
everyone was alone, alone in their sleep, alone in their dreams, alone in the quiet of the
night. In the night, everyone was nothing. In the night, everyone was beautiful.
"To be honest," I whispered to the girl whose face I never saw, "I think that the only time
I'm ever awake is in my dreams."
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And then suddenly, I woke up with a start. I was in my room. I was in a cold sweat. It
hurt to breathe. My blanket felt like a sheet of lead on my skin, and every muscle and
bone in my body ached like a dying fire. Everything was pitch black.
I felt around for my phone on the bedside table, picked it up, and shakily turned it on. It
bathed me in its warm, blue light that reminded me I was alive.
It was morning.
Excerpt Two—Paper Cranes
I thought of Katherine and her paper cranes. I pictured her folding them one after
another in the dark of night, guided by the inky light of a single dying candle.
She was in a pearly white nightgown. Her hair was let loose, as per usual, and fell
around her shoulders and her back and her breasts in soft, jet-black curls that cast
shadows against her pale skin in the candlelight. Sitting in a lacquered wooden chair in a
cramped, empty apartment, folding paper crane after paper crane on an old wooden
table that creaked under its own weight.
The night went on, but Katherine did not stop folding. The light shining from the dying
candle stayed just that — dying, but it never died. It was like, there in the Katherine's
own world, everything was forever. The candle never went out, the origami paper never
ran out. So there was never any reason for Katherine to stop folding paper cranes.
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She kept folding, and folding, until the paper cranes began to fall off the table and
scatter onto the dusty wooden floor around her. And she kept folding, and folding, until
the paper cranes began to flood the room. She folded until she was up to her knees in
paper cranes — until they flowed all the way up the skirt of her gown. She could feel the
sharp points of their wings and their tails, and their folded beaks and their long necks,
pricking against her soft skin.
Suddenly, she stopped, and closed her eyes. She leaned against her chair and tipped her
head back so that the skin of her neck was exposed to the cold night air. Then, slowly,
she spoke: "I know you don't want to hear this, but I have to tell you anyway."
"You're afraid, Isaac."
And then suddenly, like the flip of a switch, she was atop the hill with the violet grass in
the endless field. The world with the sky full of stars. My dreamscape — the place I
shared with the faceless girl every night, and knew better than anywhere else. The paper
cranes which had flooded the dark apartment room were now scattered across the
blades of grass in the field. and they were starting to flutter and shake in the breeze.
And as Katherine spoke with her eyes closed, the paper cranes began to take flight.
"Right now, you're afraid that the happiness you have newly found will soon end. You
are worried it's something that is just passing through, that'll soon be gone. You have
met with people — joined with people — known people — and now, you've begun to
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know yourself, too. But you still can't help but worry that any second now, it's all going
to come crumbling down. It's a constant fear that pulls at you, claws at you. It's a
nightmare that carves its own path into your dreams. No matter how hard you try, you
just can't help but to be afraid. But I'm here to tell you that you have to be brave."
The paper cranes flew around the field, swooping and gliding, swirling and drifting in
the summer wind, and eventually, they all flew up — and melted into the sky, becoming
stars, filling the sky with new light. The new starlight shone down onto the field of violet
grass and illuminated it with pure white.
"No matter what, you have to be brave. And you have to believe. Believe that your
happiness will last forever, trust that the people who you have met will never leave you.
No matter how hard it is, you have to try. You have to. Because if you try hard enough to
believe you will always be happy, then you will. You will never not find a reason to smile
when you go to sleep at night. You will always have people who care for you. Who think
of you. And even if things don't work out — at least you believed. And that can make all
the difference."
And then suddenly, there was nothing. Nothing but black. Katherine was drifting in
empty blackness. The hills were gone, the field was gone, the grass was gone. The stars
were gone, the wind was gone, the swirling paper cranes were gone. There was only
black space, and the floating curves of her thick, black hair, melting into the churning
abyss. The fabric of her white gown and the paleness of her skin were the only things
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that showed against the dark. She floated like this, suspended in the emptiness of space,
as she spoke with her eyes closed.
"Never be afraid to be happy. Never be afraid to be with people. Never be afraid to show
them who you really are. It sounds hard, I know, but I know you can if you try. But most
importantly, Isaac, you just need to enjoy everything you can with everything you've
got."
And then the bell rung loud, and I woke up — and class was over.
Ain’t No More God Damn Kids
Though the sun melt the sturdiest wings, we still soar up through the toxic vistas and
heady valleys
Our wings crest great salmon backed skids a’wreck
For what great sun is this?
Looking like peace-full thousand sage nirvana, peering through empty elixir lined
window and onto coked-bottled-glassy-eyed kids in front of TV’s like, “we can be like
they are,” and not a one fearing reapers bled peyot’gin dry over non-event nights, talking
more than heaven or noise of earth.
What of our ecstasies?
Good times finger-printed under cherry lights for what else, but wine and
mashmashmash, and wine gone down the stairwell- splash.
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But we’re gone kids, gone.
Falling back on rug’d floor with sleep heavy eyes staring down our better nature; give us
kicks and kiss under moon content in these disasters
Peaceful and forgiving wilds, let us dance the dissolvers, wanting nothing but these
dusty shoes undone.
—Ronnie Thompson, 29
Too Old to Robo Trip (Domo Arigato)
Try and remember that music doesn’t take up space, even if the high notes are making
your hands cold.
Is it ok if I write back to my books, asking them to say something new?
“Welcome to shipping Nirvana” Spotify croons to Melville.
I is a bother.
How many beats is it allowed to skip on the way back to the St. Vitus crumbs of GOOD
FUCKING CHRIST JUST LET THE FLOOR BE ITSELF!
Check out the fever of that 72nd Mexican chorus.
It gets better
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—A note from nowhere unparticular.
—Ronnie Thompson, 29
I Wrote This One at the Write-In You Missed (Katie's Cup)
Paper coffee cup on a marble ledge
Scrubbed with devotion and polished with Pledge
Lulled by the fire and bohemian spirit
They must have called my name but I didn't hear it
Norman’s Valley by Eric Relman, 19
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Katie's Cup
Don't come here much
I fell out of touch
With the scene today
In this part of town
Where the stream runs brown
And the streets only go one way
I come from a suburb an hour east
Where the median income is double at least
What I'm trying to say is I'm not from here
And I had to parallel park to come here
But how nice to be
Part of what you see
A community
Where you're understood
Where you bump into
People you once knew
That you thought were lost for good
The walls here are lined with board games and books
And musicians, they play and don't get dirty looks
And this latte I sip is the sweetest I've had
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Here I'm just one more hipster girl with a notepad
Katie's Cup
And I'm in no rush
In the morning crush
On a Saturday
For my day is free
And the company
Makes a poet want to stay
—Angela Hiss, 27
Heather Crawford: On Art in
the Digital Age, Overcoming
Angst
This spring, Crystal Lake artist
Heather Alice Crawford dropped
her first record. Entitled lonely
december, it is available for
download on Bandcamp under her
alias, “datagirl.” Crawford’s
unadulterated, elusive music can
also be found on Soundcloud.
STM: What was the thought process
behind your pseudonym, ‘datagirl’?
Heather Crawford: Datagirl is a
name that I decided on based on a
few factors. For the past year or so of
my life, I've been really invested in
the idea of simulated reality and
consciousness uploading. And this
may sound dumb, but it sort of has
to do with this feeling I get often,
that I'm not a real person, just a
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collection of data being simulated
on a computer. I don't know if that
makes a whole lot of sense, but
that's a main reason behind the
name. Also worth mentioning, I'm
really into digital glitch art and
data-bending, and I'm also a
computer programmer, and so
naturally the name datagirl is a
product of those interests as well.
STM: On your Bandcamp, you
write, "Lonely December is an
apology letter and a vent post for
my feelings about myself and
others."
HC: Yeah, that means a handful of
things. The album almost
completely covers my thoughts
during december 2015, about half of
them being about how I view myself
and the other half about how I feel
about other people in my life. I like
to think of it as an apology letter in
. . . this feeling I get often, that I'm not
a real person, just a collection of data
being simulated on a computer
some ways, because a large portion
of the songs are about things I've
done or thought of that I really
regret now. In that sense, the
album is also very similar to a vent
post I would write on Facebook or
Tumblr. I feel like the album is a
good closing point for a particular
chapter of my life, and a good way
to start a new one.
STM: The lyrics and overall mood
of the record is extremely
melancholy. Is music a means of
coping for you?
HC: Definitely. My primary coping
tools are playing guitar and writing
songs. Even though the music may
be very sad (I've had quite a few
friends cry when I show them my
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music), it always seems to make me
feel better about things after
playing it or hearing it. When I'm
very upset or sad, playing guitar is
just about the only thing I can do
with myself besides sleeping.
STM: What is your favorite track off
your EP?
HC: I think “translucent,” the third
track from lonely december, is my
favorite. I really like the first three
tracks, but “translucent” is one that
has always stood out to me on an
emotional level. It's about someone
very close to me and important in
my life, and how my feelings about
them have changed and mixed and
become very confusing to me now,
but through everything we both
know that we still care about each
other.
STM: Your Soundcloud features
Teen Suicide and Andrew Jackson
Jihad covers. What other artists
influence you?
HC: Teen Suicide is my all-time
favorite band to be honest, and
they're my biggest influence on
my songwriting. I'm also very
influenced by Frankie Cosmos,
she was actually the reason I got
into this style of music and picked
up guitar in the first place. Other
big influences I can think of are
Crywank, Infinity Crush, Katie
Dey, Elvis Depressedly, Neutral
Milk Hotel, and Bright Eyes.
STM: Being a pansexual,
transgender female, what advice
do you have for other queer
Midwestern artists?
HC: The biggest piece of advice I
could give to any transgender
singer out there is to not focus so
much on the pitch of your voice.
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Honestly, I've spent such a large
portion of my life trying to get
my voice to this pitch, and it still
bothers me in many instances.
Of course it's not where I want it
to be, but it's something I've
learned to live with and use to
the best of my ability, and even
be proud of it. Another thing I
would like to say is to stand up
for yourself. Hearing the
experiences of other trans teens
I've met, I've learned that my
confidence and ability to stand
up for myself and what I believe
in is what has gotten me this far
in life.
STM: You are based outside of
Chicago, but extend support to
Rockford artists, even
preforming at the Temple's
spring art scene show. Based on
your experience in the city, what
needs to be done
to improve Rockford?
HC: Well, to be honest I'm very
new to this. I've only been playing
guitar since October and I haven't
been to any live shows before
2016, and my recent experiences
with the Rockford music scene has
been almost completely positive.
When I played at The Temple last
month, I was very nervous, and
even messed up a few times, but
everyone there was very
supportive and tried their best to
make me feel more comfortable.
The people I've met in Rockford
through The Temple are mostly all
wonderful, thoughtful, inspiring
people. I would love to get more
involved with the artists of
Rockford.
STM: How do you suggest
Rockfordians (and those in the
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Odd
I’m sure this is about making mistakes.
The young scientist inventing a ray gun to make things bigger,
someone elbowing it over a coffee table.
Shit. Shit.
What did it zap?
Thank god. Only air. You think you can breathe easy
until you realize you can’t,
choking on distended molecules of oxygen, and
there goes the human race.
The reaches of a single Oops endless.
Odd that the earth pirouettes upon absolutely nothing,
much like consciousness,
the bridge between material and spiritual.
surrounding area) go about
attaining that goal?
HC: I think the best thing people
can do is to continue being
supportive and constructive to
new artists. So far the support I've
gotten from people I've met in
Rockford
has been overwhelmingly
amazing, and it really inspires
me to go further with my music.
Inspiring new artists to get their
music out and to play shows
would really add to the Rockford
music scene.
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Of course you know that you’re alive, but how do
you know you know, you know?
Perhaps all evidences of, “The Self” are illusory:
a robot programmed so well, it thinks itself something greater
and therefore is.
I’m sure this is about copulating as much
as it is about Seinfeld,
as anyone who has pictured Jerry and Elaine
in bed together can probably already tell you.
Please hand me something cloudy to drink before my head
spins so much it screws off entirely.
Odd you can walk around with your head held out in your hands
like a trick-or-treater waiting for candy.
Little sugar-coated bits of knowledge rain down upon me.
Sure, you’ll die, but there’s salvation.
Why do we expect the afterlife to be any better?
You thought you liked the original? Just wait
until you see the remake!
Nobody ever says this.
The universe embosses all things with
its indefatigable series of numbers, and you wanna
talk about which loveseat feels more comfortable?
I’m sure the universe is a shitty loveseat
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in the same way I’m sure an embrace from the right set of arms
would finally show me what it’s like to be comfortable.
I’m sure that if our ears were able to dial-in to
the frequency of light, what we would hear would singe our eyebrows,
make us hurl our ideals out our windows
in the form of various objects, smashing deceitful glass.
The window knows this. It trembles in fear and continues to open upon
pieces of whatever we want to see.
Odd that we bleed red, the color of passion,
and not a cowardly yellow.
Odd that our insight today is our oversight tomorrow.
I’m sure that I am not sure. I’m sorry.
—Joseph Altamore, 21
The Chant of the Doves
And so, the snow had melted. Dove gray clouds stood above us and in the horizon laid
blinding creams and baby blues. The grass is still green, but it’s muddled with straw-
colored remnants of the previous summer making it a modest color of its own. I stared
out through wire-strewn windows at the naked trees shuddering before the wind. They
need scarves, I thought. The dove an entire library away coos softly. The lights in the
hallway slightly flicker.
“What time does class end?” a fellow peer murmurs nearby.
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“3:15.”
“What time is it now?”
There was short bit of rustling. A plastic bag catches in the tree. I don’t think that makes
a very good scarf.
“3:02.”
They glanced over the stretch of dead plant debris.
“We didn’t get to go outside today.”
“Nope” I replied. The lights fluttered again.
An unbothered silence ensued, and I had a small headache. I shifted my weight into the
curvature of the chair and set my head on my right arm. An impermanent solution
towards a moment of ease. An interlude of soft coos drifts among the books.
The bell rung shrilly and I jumped from my comfortable position. In a rushed march we
scatter to the cadmium yellow buses lined along the pine trees. What a shame the lilac is
on the other side, passes through my head as I think of the spring to come. My shoulder
set into the nook between the cold metal of the bus and my backpack. A slow hum and
gentle honks stood against the quiet ringing in my ears. I remembered why we didn’t go
outside. There were too many geese. I only yearned for sweet coos of my favorite dove.
The bus was on its way while corn fields sped through hazy eyes. They morphed into a
short brick city, and a gray-blue river shimmered as we passed by grand gray towers. A
blotchy orange spot gazed from the distance.
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A thick glaze formed over my eyes as the city changed to ruins. Robust burgundy
buildings shed broken glass onto the weed ridden pavement. The drop forge loomed
ahead, shrouded in dusk. Wire gates covered in morning glories sat in the final drops of
sunlight, long closed by the afternoon. Ivy swirled along the drainpipes as the bus
rushed to my stop.
My nose was bleeding from the air, but I knew there weren’t any tissues on board. The
streetlights disappeared one by one. The bus shuddered to a stop as it reached the final
lamp. It was pitch black outside save for the streetlight.
Despite being a normal day, I didn’t want it to end so soon.
—Aurora Harkleroad, 16
letters to the unborn
the day I found out about you
the world had shifted
I felt less fake
more permanent
then these words
from books no one has read
five years with your mother
scares me still
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the closest I've ever been to
forever
I've been carrying the weight
of two families for some time
preparing to continue the name
in a good direction
watching the world both
galvanize
and crumble
this is where we come from
I write these letters to tell you
all you ever need to know
if you ask why we decided to have you
we didn't
we welcomed the possibility of you
trading in our once future selves
in light of your potential
your body is yours alone
listen to music that challenges you
you don't have to belong to anything
you were loved
long before you ever saw light
hold the door open for people
even if they say nothing in return
Serenity by Demetrius Markham
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another's ignorance is not a reason
to show them you lack manners
everything you notice in yourself
and in others, is a lesson
use your turn signal when you drive
learn to keep things to yourself
you will not be treated as an equal
but the hard way
has always been our specialty
strive to be greater than me
make some mistakes
learn from them
but you will learn more
from the mistakes of others
never settle
learn to cook, to dance, to sing
question your parents
but respect your elders
read books
do not rest on the first success
create things that matter to you
social media profiles do not define you
never stop learning
the internet is not a crutch
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you come from a splintered family
but not a broken one
travel to other countries
remember where you came from
even if you never go back there
I don't have all the answers
but you will understand why I lied
in time
my true legacy
is you
-Eric Danhoff, 26
Pages Per Content
By offering a glimpse into other
art scenes throughout the U.S.,
Sock the Monkey aims to inspire
and develop that of Rockford.
STM conducted an interview with
the Phoenix, Arizona based zine,
Pages Per Content. According to
their Wordpress, PPC is “a global
art collective” that “exists to
inspire. [It] provides angsty
ventilation and infinite questions
with the hope of opening minds.”
STM corresponded with Moses
Fidal, who replied with the
following responses from PPC
correspondents Jessica Diaz and
Graeme Lithgow.
Sock the Monkey: What is the
motive behind Pages Per Content?
Jessica Diaz: PPC intersects with
psychology in the way we give artists
a space to express themselves. Self-
expression is important for mental
health; we believe if we allow people
to share their ideas, it gives them the
opportunity to free their minds from
their own mental prison. If people
share themselves, it can be
rewarding. But we simply plant the
seeds.
Graeme Lithgow: We try to
deconstruct capitalist notions of
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Creation will balance mass
consumption—PPC
JD: The whole idea is an aesthetic.
We share what is given to us—the
philosophy is for people to share
their thoughts. We give no filter. .
.we have no bias. Sure, aside from
grammar, the guidelines are non-
existent. So, the aesthetic emerges
organically.
GL: Grind, destroy, upset, irritate,
undermine. This is what we at
PPC need to focus on.
STM: What advice would you give
to Rockfordians in pursuit of
developing their own artistic
forum?
JD: Do it. Don’t let people’s shit
get to you, live your own life.
Don’t be scared to say what you
want to say.
what a publication should be and
ought to be. Removing capitalist
principles from the psyche of
readers.
STM: If asked to pinpoint it, how
would you describe PPC’s
overarching atmosphere?
GL: PPC has the atmosphere of
found art or street art. When you
un-crumple a piece of paper you
thought was trash, but then
realize it’s actually a subversive
manifesto, or when you go into a
graphitized ally way and all the
paint has layered up shitty crude
drawings of penises and peoples’
tags rallying cries and in
articulate rants mixed in with
truth and sincerity.
STM: In terms of editing, what is
your philosophy regarding PPC’s
aesthetic?
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GL: I say that if you’re not filling
a niche, if what you want to do is
already happening, then maybe
you should connect with these
people who are going in the
same direction as you. If what
you want to do isn’t there yet, do
it, fill the void.
STM: What about the Phoenix
art scene makes it unique?
JD: No comment.
GL: The Phoenix art scene isn’t
unique there are plenty of shitty
art scenes all over America. But
Phoenix has sand.
36
An Alphabetical Guide to Edible Flowers
Arugula: Like the leaves, arugula blossoms are
deeply peppery in flavor.
Bachelor’s button: Mildly grassy in flavor, the
petals are edible. Avoid the bitter calyx.
Basil: Basil blossoms serve as a milder version of
the leaves.
Bee balm: Minty in flavor.
Marigold: A great flower for eating, the blossoms
are quite peppery and add a pop of color to salads
with their vibrant gold hue.
Chamomile: Famously brewed for tea, chamomile
blossoms are sweet and have a relaxing effect.
Chicory: The bitter earthiness of chicory is
evident in the petals and buds, which can be
pickled.
Chrysanthemum: Peppery and slightly bitter, the
flavor varies from type to type. Be sure to pluck
the petals from the remainder of the plant before
use, as they are the only edible part of the flower.
Cilantro: The flowers share the grassy flavor of
the herb. Use them fresh as they lose their charm
when cooked.
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Citrus (orange, lemon, lime, grapefruit, and kumquat blossoms): The flowers of citrus
plants are sweet and their fragrance highly concentrated.
Clover: Flowers are sweet with a hint of licorice.
Dill: Dill flowers taste much like the herb’s leaves.
English daisy: Although the petals are bitter, daisies add a charming aesthetic to any
dish.
Fennel: Shockingly yellow, fennel flowers bear a subtle licorice flavor, much like the
herb itself.
Fuchsia: Tangy fuchsia flowers make a beautiful garnish.
Gladiolus: Because gladioli are bland, they should be stuffed or incorporated into a
salad.
Hibiscus: Often brewed as tea, hibiscus boasts a vibrant cranberry flavor and should be
used frugally.
Hollyhock: Vegetal and rather bland, the blossoms make lovely garnishes.
Impatiens: Also bland, impatiens work well as a garnish or for candying.
Jasmine: Jasmine can be incorporated in desserts or brewed as tea. If not used
sparingly, it can easily over-perfume a dish.
Lavender: Sweet, spicy, and perfumed, the flowers are a great addition to both savory
and sweet dishes.
Lemon verbena: The diminutive off-white blossoms are redolent of lemon, making them
ideal for tea and desserts.
Lilac: The floral scent of the flowers translates smoothly to the flavor.
Mint: Naturally, the blossoms taste minty. Their intensity varies among varieties.
Nasturtium: One of the most popular edible flowers, nasturtium blossoms boast a
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complex flavor of sweet, floral, and spicy. The flowers can be stuffed and added to
salads, while the buds are best pickled.
Oregano: The flowers are a pretty, subtle version of the leaf.
Pansy: The petals are somewhat nondescript, but if you eat the whole flower you get
more taste.
Radish: Varying in color, radish flowers have a distinctive, peppery bite.
Rose: Remove the white, bitter base and the remaining petals have a strongly perfumed
flavor perfect for drinks, desserts, and jams. The darker the hue of the petals, the more
pronounced the flavor.
Rosemary: Flowers taste like a milder version of the herb; nice used as a garnish on
dishes that incorporate rosemary.
Sage: Blossoms have a subtle flavor similar to the leaves.
Squash and pumpkin: Blossoms from both are wonderful vehicles for stuffing, each
having a slight squash flavor. Remove stamens before use.
Sunflower: In addition to the seeds, sunflower petals can be eaten raw; the bud can be
steamed like an artichoke.
Violets: Sweet and floral in taste, violets give an elusive look to salads, desserts, and
drinks.
Floral Spring Rolls
Yield: eighteen spring rolls
one seven ounce package rick sticks or bean thread noodles
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four cups very thinly sliced Napa cabbage
two cups baby spinach leaves, thinly sliced (tough stems removed)
three tablespoons cilantro leaves (stems removed)
one fourth cup sliced fresh mint
one fourth cup thinly sliced fresh Thai or Italian basil leaves (stems removed)
two scallions, thinly sliced on the diagonal (both white and green parts)
one and one half cups edible, organic flowers, stems removed (see above list)
eighteen spring roll wrappers (Tapioca or rice flour wrappers)
Other fillings that you might like to swap for those listed above:
Bean sprouts
Thinly chopped green cabbage
Finely grated carrot
In a medium size saucepan, bring two quarts water to a boil. Add noodles and cook for
three minutes, occasionally stirring to assure the noodles are submerged and cook
evenly. Drain well, rinsing under cold water. Prepare vegetables and flowers, then toss
gently in a large bowl to distribute the ingredients rather evenly. Set aside near your
assembly area.
Fill a large pan, (wide enough to lay spring roll wrapper out flat) with a couple of inches
of very hot water. Place one spring wrapper into the water, submerging completely for
about thirty seconds until it is soft and pliable.
Lay the wrapper out on the towel; place one half of the filling ingredients and one
fourth cup noodles in center of wrapper; roll the edge nearest you over the top of the
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ingredients, then pull back slightly to secure the ingredients in the fold, bring right side
over to the middle, then the left side over to the middle, then roll up tightly to form the
spring roll. Place in prepared damp paper towel (or lettuce leaf) lined container; cover
spring roll with another wet paper towel or lettuce leaf. Continue with remaining spring
rolls. If serving buffet display, keep spring rolls covered with wet lettuce leaves to keep
them from drying out. Work with the wrappers one at a time; dip to soften then fill and
roll before moving on to the next spring roll.
Peanut-Ginger Dipping Sauce
Yield: three cups
one cup creamy (smooth) peanut butter
one fourth cup soy sauce
one to two teaspoons red chili paste (optional; use it if you want the sauce spicy)
three tablespoons honey, or white or brown sugar
juice of 1 large, or 2 small limes
1/2 cup hot water
one tablespoon finely grated fresh ginger, more if you love a pronounced ginger flavor;
micro-plane works perfectly for this task (if you don't have fresh ginger, omit--dried
ginger will not suffice)
In a food processor or blender, combine peanut butter, soy sauce, red chili paste, agave,
and lime juice until smooth. With motor running, gradually add enough hot water to
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thin to desired consistency. Transfer sauce to a serving bowl, or individual dipping
bowls.
Elderflower Popsicles
four cups water
various edible flowers (see above list)
one tablespoon elderflower cordial
Place petals inside popsicle molds being sure to layer them on top of each other and not
compact them. Mix water and elderflower cordial in a large jug and stir well to combine.
Gently pour the cordial mixture into the popsicle molds trying not to unseat the petals
too much. Insert popsicle sticks and place in the freezer until frozen solid. To remove
from the molds, gently place bottom of molds in warm water until the popsicles pull
free.
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Sock the Monkey (STM) is a Rockford, Illinois based publication. It places emphasis on, but
is not limited to, artists from Rockford and the surrounding area. The goal of this project is to
elevate Rockford’s outlook regarding self and to bring light to the accomplishments obtained
by its members. All works are compiled and edited by Esther Veitch. Cover art is accredited
to Demetrius Markham. June 2016.