Allister's opinions on reincarnation were vague, which could also be stated for his religious beliefs in general. But, this we know as fact. Allister would, on numerous occasions throughout his life, address complete strangers as if he had known them for years. Even more bizarre was the years he referred to were long past. Allister would address the milk man as 'Father', kneel down before him, confess all his sins, and ask for penance-which the milkman would inevitably give in the form of one bottle of milk and one bottle of cream. Age was not an issue. He once put his arm around a young toddler and recounted in a raucous manner all their war stories and past glories in fighting the Huns, bawdy tales that leapt beyond the borderline of risque. Neither were any gender restrictions at play. He addressed a nurse at the local hospital as 'Butch' and treated her as if she were a bare knuckle boxer; massaging her shoulders, sparring, and once shouting in the middle of a reading of his pulse, "Get back in there, Butchie!"
The amazing attribute was that, as Allister carried on, the person in question began to believe the stories. And it was more than belief. They began to know the stories. The details were so intricate. The scenes, painted with the oils of memory, seemed to transmit from Allister's easel to the stranger's. If this stranger was you, it is said that you would feel these oils seep into your brain, that they'd mix together and form pictures of unbelievable clarity. Pictures of times you never knew existed and the memory would alter with what your brain had to offer. It would become the memory of not one, but two. The toddler became soldier. The milk man became priest. And nurse became prizefighter.
The toddler, who had previously spoken only a few choices words, launched into an equally obscene monologue filled with bravado and profanity. Allister and he would laugh deep and the toddler would slam his bottle down and demand another drink The milk man would set down his bottles and begin writing a sermon for the following Sunday. And the nurse would send a right hook squarely into the stomach of the resident physician with practiced ease.
Then, after Allister had said his goodbye, had repeated how great it was to see this person again, they would all return just as smoothly to being people of the present.
The amazing attribute was that, as Allister carried on, the person in question began to believe the stories. And it was more than belief. They began to know the stories. The details were so intricate. The scenes, painted with the oils of memory, seemed to transmit from Allister's easel to the stranger's. If this stranger was you, it is said that you would feel these oils seep into your brain, that they'd mix together and form pictures of unbelievable clarity. Pictures of times you never knew existed and the memory would alter with what your brain had to offer. It would become the memory of not one, but two. The toddler became soldier. The milk man became priest. And nurse became prizefighter.
The toddler, who had previously spoken only a few choices words, launched into an equally obscene monologue filled with bravado and profanity. Allister and he would laugh deep and the toddler would slam his bottle down and demand another drink The milk man would set down his bottles and begin writing a sermon for the following Sunday. And the nurse would send a right hook squarely into the stomach of the resident physician with practiced ease.
Then, after Allister had said his goodbye, had repeated how great it was to see this person again, they would all return just as smoothly to being people of the present.
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