i am going home very shortly.

this was taken from:
http://www.matthewgood.org/2000/09/the-killing-of-matthew-good/

Matthew Good September 15th, 2000 -->
The Killing of Matthew Good
They plan to use my execution to kick off the county fair.
I hear whispers that they will hang me. There are those that wished to see me electrocuted, but it seems they only have one generator and cannot spare the power. Better to have caramel-covered apples than see my spine dance. I could simply not abide an execution without the availability of concession foods. Unruly I may be, but never uncivilized. There will be children present after all. Best to set a good example.
Chin up and all that. It’s off to meet the maker. I have nothing to complain about. I hold no ill will towards anyone. I will leave this world as I entered it. Void of popular consent.
They have me locked up in some sort of cellar. I was unconscious when I was brought in so I’m not quite sure exactly where I am. Strangely enough, it’s filled with a variety of costumes. Twice a day someone opens the door and slides a bowl of pork and beans into the room. This I have never understood. Making sure that those condemned to die are nourished enough to take part only serves to further the misrepresentation of compassion in a compassionless society. Yesterday, during the sliding of the pork and beans, I decided to ask my jailer where I was. The response was short and ambiguous.
“You’re in God’s country,��? said a voice.
“Hmm,��? I said to myself, “God must be lost.��?
I have decided to wear a clown suit when the time comes. They’re bent on hanging one, after all.
I have been sitting here trying to figure out where it all went wrong. It seems that I have been moving for so long that I have forgotten what it’s like to be still. I’ve been retracing my footsteps, wondering when it was that I became the formless monster that I now am. But nothing comes to mind.
They tell me that I used to be quite agreeable. I can’t say that I remember ever being agreeable. I can’t say that I can ever remember being anything but adamantly uninterested. I have stalked the planet to my discontent, it seems. And now, here in this basement, I am left with all the blackness that has consumed my insides.
I have come to realize that I allowed myself to be brought below the waves and partially drowned. But before I could struggle free of the water and regain the air, I was caught.
The hayseeds have me now. They’re going to hang me. It was wrong of Christians to have ever bought into all that peace and love nonsense. Things were much more interesting when their lust for bloody vengeance was out in the open. Now they’re just forcibly boring and seem to get quite offended when over-glorified suburban idiots exclaim the titles of pornographic magazines over the airwaves.
I am doomed to dangle. There’s no getting around it I’m afraid. I can only hope that the gallows are in a state of good repair. It would be a big disappointment to discover that I am to be stood on a chair and boringly tipped to my death. Hopefully there will be a trap door to dramatically plummet through, or a team of stallions to hoist me at breakneck speed into the air.
It shouldn’t be all that challenging for the promoters. Some dumb bastard in a clown suit getting yanked to his death by four steeds. Why not light the gallows on fire or set off some fireworks when my head hits the top beam. It will be the show of the century.
It would be great to have one’s own demise promoted in a Don King fashion:
Perhaps the fear of death is worse than its actuality. Not unlike when you jump off of something ridiculously high, you’re scared but eventually you succumb to irrational curiosity and do it. Afterwards you realize that it was really no big deal in the first place. I figure death is no different.
When I was eleven I was rushed to the hospital because I was literally frozen in the fetal position. I couldn’t unclench my hands, nor my knees or elbows or feet. It hurt like hell. Then, to add insult to injury, I started wandering in and out of consciousness. I had had influenza for nearly a week and a half. After my parts froze my mother started thinking that it might be something else altogether. When we arrived at the hospital I was examined by several doctors. I was then given a spinal tap. They don’t sedate you when they give you a spinal tap. They lay you on your side, bend you slightly, and slowly slide needles into your spinal cord. The doctor told my mother that I most likely had spinal meningitis and would be dead within the week. All I remember is the Jell-O. I wasn’t given anything to eat except Jell-O.
During the days and nights that followed, interns started appearing outside of my room in droves. They would stand there, peering through the glass, as several doctors spoke and occasionally pointed in my direction. I’m told that spinal meningitis is very rare.
One night, some days later, I awoke at 4 a.m. I got out of bed and walked out to the nurses’ station. I stood there, freezing. After several minutes the lady behind the kiosk noticed that I was standing there. She said nothing. I asked if she would be a sport and call me a cab.
So much for death.
But this time there’s no out. This time there is just pork and beans.
I am all out of moderately entertaining things to say. I have become the foundation of your dissatisfaction. I will pay the price. This theme-park world that we have so craftily constructed without our consciences getting in the way will extract a toll much worse than the mere bruises of consumerist overload. The debilitations suffered by that which comprises our unknown quantities will surely be much greater. The gods of entertainment demand sacrifice. And surely I’ll be replaced by something altogether more predictable.
There was a time when slogans such as “power to the people��? and “make love not war��? were believable. But even then they were nothing more than cheap disguises bent on delivering the usually sought after nuggets of an anaesthetized society. You can replace them with “Fuck the people, I want the power��? and “I was just looking to score because of the war��? because the truth hurts. And since art no longer reflects anything but unchallenging passiveness packaged as a good time, you’ll be needing something to keep you partially sober.
Last night the carnival trucks rolled into town. There were sounds of preparation, sounds of tired lives being led, sounds of discontented misfits practising a trade as ancient as tragedy. All through the night they worked feverishly to erect Ring Toss booths, the Haunted House, the Chain Swings. The animals in the makeshift petting zoo, blind with glaucoma, wander the husky darkness bumping into each other. The ringmaster writes to a girl he tries to remember as being something other than merely a voice on a phone. The ride mechanic hits the bottle. The carnival must be put together in the night. Done in broad daylight, its secrets would be too easily revealed. It remains one of the last great unknowns in this world. Because if we were to discover how shoddy everything was we would never go. Instead we would go to one of those ridiculous entertainment-megatropolis things and become pale reminders of ourselves.
I did my best to stay awake so that I might see the sun rise for the last time. But I fell asleep.
I awoke this morning to the familiar aroma of pork and beans. I wished it were Jell-O. I attempted to pull myself together, be strong, when the time came. I did my best, but my knees were wobbly. I tried to eat, but vomited.
I spent an hour or so putting on the clown suit, haphazardly slapping on some face paint, trying to make the shoes fit better. And then they came for me. No last meal, no last requests fulfilled, no few minutes with family or friends. I was simply thrown in the back of a cart and wheeled to my destruction. People lined the midway, some throwing things, others merely observing me with quiet disgust. The fact that I was wearing a clown suit only fuelled the crowd’s anger. My last jab gave me little comfort, but at least it was something.
As for the rest, well, there is little I can say of it. I would have thought my conditioning able to provide some capable last words, but I merely shook my head when asked if I had any. And then, as quickly as my life had happened, it ended. My legs wobbled, my lungs felt as if they were filled with concrete, I nearly bit clear through my tongue. I just stood there in a clown suit with a rope around my neck. Then the floor gave way and I went with it.
I guess this means the fair is open. Make sure to enjoy yourself.
Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.—George Orwell, Animal Farm
About This Entry
Author: Matthew Good
Date: September 15th, 2000