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Mr. Sure Footing (The Lack of Respect)

November 14, 2006

Plague of the Philistines See him here, the man called Mr. Sure Footing. He casually strolls down the street, whistling In the Hall of the Mountain King to himself. Does he know that Hans Beckert, of Fritz Lang’s M once whistled the tune? Probably not, for what would it matter? He can still make the trek down to the Friday matinee, only knowing the world to which he has grown accustomed. To him Newton’s words have no meaning. Just fading discourse of an old fool with an apple.

He doesn’t know anything that should be known. He doesn’t know that Fleming left Oz for the destination of Tara, and came with the order to replace Cuckor. He could care less. To him Willis H. O’Brien and Marcel Delgado never made the island’s king with foam rubber, rabbit hair, and dental floss. “Todd Browning,” He scoffs. “The man doesn’t scare me,” To him Béla Ferenc Dezső Blaskó was a unknown man from Lugos, Hungary. And the man from Calanda never made L’Âge d’or.

He stands on every street, he lives in every home. He is the ignorant gnat that stomps his feet upon the giant’s shoulder, buzzing into it’s great ear. He doesn’t care and doesn’t appreciate. He doesn’t watch films from distant lands, for he cannot read. He will rest his head on sheets of fine linens this night with no fear of Shreck’s Orlock leaning over him, while he sleeps. He is of Philistines. He doesn’t understand that if the giant were gone, so too would be his sure footing.
In the words of J.D. Salinger, “A person deprived, for life, of any understanding or taste for the main current of poetry that flows through things, all things.”

Kyle W. Sutton

2 comments

  1. Kyle, is this blog about me? Lol im kidding. Unless it is, than fuck you!


  2. I doubt it’s about Juice — he wouldn’t know “The Hall of the Mountain King”…



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