[TM] 268 - The End
Preface to Undead And Loving It: The Life And Times Of Artie Jackson, published posthumously on October 8th, one year after his passing…
INTRODUCTION
Dearest Reader,
Too often, those trapped by the mortal coil don’t stop to consider that true immortality don’t exist this side of the grave unless you’re God. To cite a group I’m intimately familiar with, vampires may live forever but we die as readily as any human with enough fire, sun, stakes, or sharp blades taken to the neck and head. We fall, we fail, and we die.
If you’re reading this…then I’ve done just that. Saint Peter’s holding a book much like this one, and the final chapter’s been written. Now he has to read up and see if I’m ready to walk through those pearly gates or if I’m set to take the elevator straight down.
How close to Heaven would you like to get, boys and girls? Can you help the man upstairs make that final call? Maybe your prayers might be the deciding vote.
In 1965, I was involved in a shooting that forced me into leaving my family because I was afraid that I would be exposed for my true nature. It was a hard decision to make, one that haunts me even now. Still, the past can’t be changed and I live with what I did, each and every day.
After my move to New York, I began to keep a diary of my daily life in hopes that I could preserve something of my memories and my life as I knew it. I wanted to hold on to my identity even as I steeped myself in a brand new one. Artie Jackson had to survive even though I was forced to become Walter Jameson for my own safety. Journaling got to be something of an addiction, a habit I never quite broke.
One day just after the birth of my great grandson I thought about my legacy…and realized that I’d created one in a bunch of notebooks, beat up journals, and composition tablets I’d accumulated through the years. Unwittingly, I had chronicled a period of American history and global upheaval that will be felt for hundreds of years after even I am gone. My words are nothing special, but they form a collection of memories I prize above all but my family…and when little Artie Jackson Baxter turned six months old, I finally consulted an attorney to update my will and started locking away decades worth of journals for future release.
Now my ticket’s been punched and I’m no longer in the world…but my story’s been placed in his hands. And yours.
I’m no extraordinary man, ladies and gentlemen. Hell I’m not even a very good one. Still, I am a man that’s seen a hell of a lot in my short time on this rock, and it’s precious to me. Like any ordinary Joe, my fondest wish is not to be forgotten. If I’m remembered, I die happy, and if I’m remembered with love and affection? That’s just icing on a very big cake.
In life, I cared little for what others thought, but in death I realize, as I sit here, that maybe I care a little more. Opinions and judgments still don’t amount to a hill of beans, naturally, but I care if you’re thinking about me. I don’t know if Saint Peter’s real, or if prayers count…but if they do? I don’t ask much from the world that produced me or the society that had to put up with me for well over eighty years as of this writing.
I ask only that you look at my life in these pages, and take a few minutes to think of me. However I died, whenever I met my Maker, I ask that you bear witness to my life and my thoughts, and think whatever good or bad you may of a blue-collar family man named Artie Jackson.
Weigh me. Measure me. Think what you will, but think of me because I have to confess: I lied. There’s one brand of immortality available outside of godhood…just one.
Nobody truly dies so long as they’re remembered.
-A.J.
- October 9, 2007
Muse: Artie Jackson
Fandom: Original Character
Words: 704
INTRODUCTION
Dearest Reader,
Too often, those trapped by the mortal coil don’t stop to consider that true immortality don’t exist this side of the grave unless you’re God. To cite a group I’m intimately familiar with, vampires may live forever but we die as readily as any human with enough fire, sun, stakes, or sharp blades taken to the neck and head. We fall, we fail, and we die.
If you’re reading this…then I’ve done just that. Saint Peter’s holding a book much like this one, and the final chapter’s been written. Now he has to read up and see if I’m ready to walk through those pearly gates or if I’m set to take the elevator straight down.
How close to Heaven would you like to get, boys and girls? Can you help the man upstairs make that final call? Maybe your prayers might be the deciding vote.
In 1965, I was involved in a shooting that forced me into leaving my family because I was afraid that I would be exposed for my true nature. It was a hard decision to make, one that haunts me even now. Still, the past can’t be changed and I live with what I did, each and every day.
After my move to New York, I began to keep a diary of my daily life in hopes that I could preserve something of my memories and my life as I knew it. I wanted to hold on to my identity even as I steeped myself in a brand new one. Artie Jackson had to survive even though I was forced to become Walter Jameson for my own safety. Journaling got to be something of an addiction, a habit I never quite broke.
One day just after the birth of my great grandson I thought about my legacy…and realized that I’d created one in a bunch of notebooks, beat up journals, and composition tablets I’d accumulated through the years. Unwittingly, I had chronicled a period of American history and global upheaval that will be felt for hundreds of years after even I am gone. My words are nothing special, but they form a collection of memories I prize above all but my family…and when little Artie Jackson Baxter turned six months old, I finally consulted an attorney to update my will and started locking away decades worth of journals for future release.
Now my ticket’s been punched and I’m no longer in the world…but my story’s been placed in his hands. And yours.
I’m no extraordinary man, ladies and gentlemen. Hell I’m not even a very good one. Still, I am a man that’s seen a hell of a lot in my short time on this rock, and it’s precious to me. Like any ordinary Joe, my fondest wish is not to be forgotten. If I’m remembered, I die happy, and if I’m remembered with love and affection? That’s just icing on a very big cake.
In life, I cared little for what others thought, but in death I realize, as I sit here, that maybe I care a little more. Opinions and judgments still don’t amount to a hill of beans, naturally, but I care if you’re thinking about me. I don’t know if Saint Peter’s real, or if prayers count…but if they do? I don’t ask much from the world that produced me or the society that had to put up with me for well over eighty years as of this writing.
I ask only that you look at my life in these pages, and take a few minutes to think of me. However I died, whenever I met my Maker, I ask that you bear witness to my life and my thoughts, and think whatever good or bad you may of a blue-collar family man named Artie Jackson.
Weigh me. Measure me. Think what you will, but think of me because I have to confess: I lied. There’s one brand of immortality available outside of godhood…just one.
Nobody truly dies so long as they’re remembered.
-A.J.
- October 9, 2007
Muse: Artie Jackson
Fandom: Original Character
Words: 704