Karen M. Hollingsworth
Posted: Sat Aug 29, 2026 1:57 pm
just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you
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Dec 31, 2025Wednesday, December 31st, 2025 at 8:53 PM
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Wednesday, December 31st, 2025 at 8:53 PM
Hello,
I’m not a professional grifter. I spent a decade trying to help expose a system that is now inevitable, and I’m done. Don’t care. Done. Not a saint, not a martyr. Don’t owe anybody an explanation. I’ve got other things I’d rather be doing. It’s all over bar the shouting, as Alan used to say.
What I will do is work on a biography of Alan based on our years and years of conversations . I have no way of proving any of it. If Alan was a liar, he was a very consistent one, because his stories which he repeated never changed. He definitely obfuscated a lot, so who knows. I will try to have a rough draft by March and will share it with you to post wherever you like for free. If someone who has previously hit you with ‘copyright infringement’ tries to make trouble, feel free to hit them back.
Alan was my close friend. I’d like him to be remembered as the good man that he was, and he wouldn’t have been opposed to that. He wanted his work shared by his listeners, not perverted into a fringe cult. He only asked for what he needed to survive.
Alan had a bleeding ulcer, severe rheumatoid arthritis, and pneumonias which he tried to treat himself almost every winter. HIs previous medical emergency, in late 2019, was blastomycosis pneumonia, from all that rotten, punky wood he used to feed into the wood stove. It nearly killed him, and definitely did severe damage to his lungs. This continues to be a killer in Sudbury. It came out in the media that the forest areas had aerial herbicide spraying, which was/is the cause.
It’s possible that this Melissa came in to ‘help’ after he was debilitated, because I remember him once mentioning he was going to have a housekeeper in to help him, which could have been someone he already knew circa Patru days? Once Covid hit, she may have parked herself there after March 2020 when the lockdown started? If so, he kept it a secret.
All I know is the person who called to inform me of his death immediately started in, “You were his friend, but I was his Partner.” Totally insincere voice, like a bad actress. Best case scenario, agent infiltrator. Worst case scenario a narcissistic sociopath parasite.
He definitely did not have anyone in his home prior to the medical emergency. Before his being in ER we spoke nightly for hours, and I never heard any noise or voice in the background. He made his own meager dinner every night and fed Hamish from the plate, he shoveled his own snow, gathered his own wood.
He had a clapped out old trailer on his property with a collapsing roof, but anyone in that would have frozen to death.
If Alan had a wife, she would have named in a will. His wife was his work. Wife=Archive Website. His one true love was Hamish, the dog. He was heartbroken when he he wasn’t healthy enough to care for him any longer, and the tumor on Hamish’s mouth was too severe.
The last time I spoke with Alan, two nights before his death, he ominously said “Something has happened, but I can’t say on the phone.” That could literally have been anything.
He generally didn’t use peoples names, but he regularly mentioned people in his life. A former Scientologist who did transcriptions, which would have been Diana. He did name Jo Leigh who independently posted on youtube and bitchute, who he spoke with around once a month. He was fond of Brandon Turbeville. He had a Scottish friend in Ohio, who had type I diabetes, with a cat who hunted rabbits, but I’ve no clue if he’s still alive. I don’t know any of these contributors personally and have no connection with any of them.
Anyhow, that’s all. I’ll send you whatever I’ve botched together for a bio in locked PDF form in March.
Sincerely Yours,
Karen
On Wednesday, December 31, 2025 at 09:07:45 AM EST, selenite2 <selenite2protonmail.com> wrote:
Really Karen, really ? And you waited eh….four years to start telling us …if you suspect ” foul play” really…not too convincing..especially after I had to motivate you a few times, gosh how caring you are to Alan, really …impressed…. you flip flop…more Guru creation..
Anyway we post Karen´s Myth Making Story about Alan Watt here, to get it over with , but as expected it contains no valid information about Karen or Alan, not about their relationship or any verified facts , thus it is a very disappointing story just anecdotes for Hero Creation. Vague accusations …rumors, gossip, some facts here and there but not too relevant..
Where are YOU in this story , Karen ?? Oh you ” only talked to Alan” just like that, sure and I am mickey mouse…you have to believe me Karen, honestly..don´t you dare to doubt me.
But you never bothered to question hmm ?
Just say yes and amen and that is that, wow that is some friend.. oh Alan had a hatred for Alex Jones and Icke, ” Eiche” really well he did not mind showing up at Alex , many times ..duhh..come on it is all hypocrite..contradictions…
Don´t bother yourself looking into facts, mrs Hollingsworth..oh by the way..children…Karen did send me her hmm product but , soon after, the cult from Texas took it down, naturally.
The link was … https://archive.org/details/the-sometim ... -alan-watt
Well, luckily , I downloaded it immediately as you have to do that nowadays as things tend to disappear rather fast..if not authorized..I have my own Linux transcription robot so I transcribed the audio into text, it is not perfect but at least readable, so , there you go.
The sometimes true history of Alan Watt, real and invented tales as told to me by my closest and dearest friend.
No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.
Aristotle
Alan Watt was born on the surface of the Bannock Burn, Scotland’s son of a miner, grandson of a miner.
Post World War II Scotland was still a world from another century, with ever-present reminders of the past.
An aurora borealis magical horizon was silhouetted by great stone castles and forts, standing stones in the fields, and highland ghosts of Wallace and the Bruce re-enacting lost battles in the mist.
Beneath those green fields, carved deep underground, was a rabbit’s whore in of coal tunnels, cutting a matrix of great halls, passages and rooms.
A scene world above, and a secret, complicated, unseen world below.
It was a world with filled radio waves streaming sounds of the future from distant shores, and grandmothers on the stoop spinning wool, telling mystical tales of little people and second sight.
A World in Transition
This world of the Bannock Burn coal mines had owners.
Its heads were a myriad of directors and experts who planned the direction of future excavations and held maps of the existing tunnels.
The planners drafted not just the paths to and through the seams, but a directed a closed hierarchical system of society.
The miners earned just enough to pay for food and board, with an occasional holiday, but no more.
There was no way out of Plato’s cave into the light.
The miners only had each other and their families to fight for their rights and survival.
When the alarm sounded from the mines, ringing through the community, through the schoolyards, everyone prayed it wasn’t their father or brother or beau in the collapse.
Allen understood the greater world as being run just as the mines.
As a small boy resolved that he would never break his back, being a miner.
Allen’s family’s first home was a squalid tenement row house, a remnant of the 1800s, damp plaster and stone, full of mold.
As a small child, Allen was struck with scarlet fever, or rather rheumatic fever, which would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He recalled slipping in and out of consciousness, hallucinating, sweating, writing in pain.
A doctor was called to the house, hovering over the boy, his crying mother, saying, he will not live through the night.
Allen too ill to speak heard him and cursed them over and over in his head, damn, you, I’m going to live.
I’m going to live.
I’m going to live.
They believed him almost dead for a time through that long night, but he did live.
He lived, changed.
Allen’s father’s family claimed descent from the steam engine of Scotland, inventor James Watt.
Whatever fortune once associated with the name was squandered long ago with bad investments and poor politics.
The only remnants of the great man held were left on scraps of papers letters relating to the lunar society, held in the drawers of old aunties.
I think the paternal Watt grandfather was a known bursaker.
He was a prop drawer, the man who knocked out the supports when the tunnels were to be collapsed.
It was the best pay for a man in the mines, far better than a hewer or store.
He was fearless.
And he was dangerous.
The other men were scared to be on a crew with him, too reckless.
As a boy, well below the age of enlisting this grandfather had joined up for the Great War, to escape being a hewer with his burrow the coal dust.
He loved the adventure of being overseas, and grew more than a foot, having access to canned meat and real food for the first time.
He joined up again for the Second War with his sons, in search of adventure again.
He spent a long time in North Africa, too long, and there was something strange about him.
As a boy, Allen overheard one of his uncles and his grandfather reminiscing of their war days, finding they had enjoyed best the same fat whore in France and laughed.
The other, maternal grandfather had joined the Irish supporting the IRA during World War II.
Allen condemned his efforts.
As an adult, Allen visited and played music in Northern Ireland during the Troubles.
Accompanying an Irish friend into corner shop for cigarettes, he recalled a gang of IRA thugs coming in and pressing the shopkeeper for cash with the threat of violence, just like the mafia.
Allen saw the British government in London as running both sides, and the citizens as the victims.
He disdained the orange men as well, and their parades condemning the Catholics.
Allen was a second child.
His older sister resented sharing the scraps that the young family lived on.
She tormented him.
He had a budgie that he loved very much, and kept in a cage, letting him fly loose in his room.
His sister, angry with him one day purposefully opened the window and let the bird loose to fly outdoors.
He never saw the bird again, and believed it attacked and killed by other, predator birds.
He forever thought her selfish, hard, and mean and the two never got along.
Canaries were still used in Scotland’s coal mines, jolly little yellow sprites, who sang their sweet songs in the dark.
When they fell silent, the men fled, knowing there was a gas pocket and death ahead.
Allen could whistle and mimic different bird songs and calls with an amazing accuracy.
But more amazing was his ability to create harmonies to these melodies and shape full songs from them.
Little Symphonies of Whistling
Allen’s mother worked as a maid in a wealthy household for a time, to supplement the family’s modest income.
When Allen’s musical abilities were noticed by her employer, he was allowed into the home to learn a play the piano and the large conservatory pedal harp.
Whoever this man was, he was an early patron, and I believe brought Allen’s exceptional talents and intelligence to the attention of others.
The miners were great singers themselves, with choirs of men who traveled performed.
Allen’s father had a great tenor voice, and had hoped to have a career in his youth.
He sang in the miners’ choir and played the trumpet with a miners’ band.
As a toddler, Allen took his father’s golden trumpet, and went missing on a journey, wandering miles and miles away, with half the town searching for him.
He wanted a trumpet of his own.
When he was found, and returned he was eventually given a toy trumpet, but it was no substitute for the real one.
Allen always loved animals.
As a very tiny boy, home alone on a rainy day, Allen heard a scratching at the front door.
He opened it to find a very wet raven.
He invited the bird in to share the fireside, and it hopped in and to Allen’s delight, sat with him by the fire, warming itself.
After his feathers had dried the boy watch him puff himself out, only in great dismay to notice tiny mites crawling all over him.
Oh, no.
I’m afraid you must go.
He opened the window, and the bird cordially obliged, and left.
By the time his family could afford a second-hand black and white TV, he had his own hammoth a hamster, named from Tales from the Riverbank.
He would feed the cart-horses apples whenever he could manage to get one from his earnings.
He helped a local farmer muck barns for a time, to earn money for the candy shop, and would go out and pet the gentle red-highland cattle with their long bangs,
who he especially loved.
But Allen’s greatest love was always for dogs.
He longed for a dog.
He and his cousin found a half-drowned pup someone had tied in a bag, which he swam out to retrieve.
He brought the dog home, and begged to keep it.
His parents took the dog away, to a pound, where he believed it was killed, and he resented that his whole life.
As an adult, whenever he could Allen always kept and held a special, loyal love and bond with a dog.
Allen’s mother hated the family’s poverty, and would harangue his father coming in from the pits stinking, covered in dust, I could have married a dentist.
She instilled the sentiment in his sister, who grew up to be beautiful and willful, he said favoring the actress Nicole Kidman.
His sister became the mistress of a well-known lord, who reveled in pissing on the people below from his helicopter.
When she married, she treated her first husband with the same disdain.
The second husband, a Catholic with a stern hand took no disrespect from her, and she worshipped him, Meek as a lamb.
Allen would take no disrespect from a woman, and always thought it imperative to be the leader, to not show weakness, or you would be despised.
Another of Allen’s mother’s jobs as a boy was as a ticket-taker at a local Madden A. Theatre.
Allen would join her, and watch the double features for free.
He particularly loved the science fiction and alien movies.
He remembered invaders from Mars with its buried UFOs and mind-control crystals planted into the base of the victim’s skulls.
This predictive programming idea, of the brain-chip stuck with Allen, who watched its evolution to a potential reality.
He was also a fan of the quarter-mass series.
Allen had a series of events in his life that he said, he would file away in a box or drawer as unexplained.
He seldom shared them, because he realized people would think him mad.
He’d say, I know this happened, but I cannot explain it.
As a boy, he claimed to be approached by something or someone akin to a gray.
He said the thing was wearing a trench coat and a hat, but was featureless.
He claimed the gray scanned his mind, reading his thoughts.
He shared the experience with his horrified mother.
As an adult he did not know what to make of it, searching for an answer.
Was it an alien?
Was it a demon?
Was it one of the many fairy creatures of myth?
Was it a government experiment?
But he did not believe it was his imagination, inspired by the many Madden A. films.
When he was a bit older, Allen’s family moved into a council house, which was clean and healthy.
When he spoke of his early school days, before the sexes were separated, he always remembered a pale pretty,
frail little blonde girl who was introduced to the class, who sat behind him.
So very nice.
So kind.
She had leukemia.
He always made a special effort to help her, and seemed to have a special love in his heart for her.
One day she never came back.
At school, it was noticed that Allen was unusually intelligent for his age.
He had no great love for school though, and would run play truant whenever possible.
He had hiding places, a giant hollowed-out tree he would reside in like a medieval monk.
He would read books inside, and when it was safe from being captured, climb up into its great branches.
He loved to wander down streams and linger beneath bridges.
An uncle had taught him to guttle fish, rubbing the trout’s belly to scoop him up, and Allen would light a fire and make his lunch of him.
He’d search for nests of goose eggs on the edge of streams to eat as well.
He loved to wander and explore, walking alone up the long winding roads into the countryside.
Allen had two elderly maiden aunties who he would visit, in their antique lace, part of the Watt family, with the connection to Ireland.
They were Catholic and had lost their sweethearts in the First Great War.
In Scotland, villages had lost entire generations of young men in the war.
The aunties never married after losing their loves.
When he’d leave them, they’d always say, We love you and wish you in heaven, even though you’re not Catholic.
There was a pond where Allen liked to sit as a boy and watch the swans.
He romanticised swans mating for life, and would watch the pairs.
He claimed that after one of the swans’ mates had died, and he had witnessed a true swan dive there, where the widowed bird dived down and broke its own neck on the water.
He had many romanticised notions, and claimed that he began writing poems and songs, very young, which he first submitted and sold the rights to.
He was paid a flat fee, which to him was a fortune at the time.
The first he claimed became a well-known Peter, Paul and Mary song about the marriage of souls.
I have no way of knowing if any of this is really true, but it was certainly true to him in his mind.
As a boy, one of Allen’s other great joys was to somehow acquire a pence and go to the candy store.
The candy store was run by an old woman, with shelves full of great glass jars filled with bright, striped and wrappered delight.
His greatest glory was peppermint humbugs.
There was also a candy manufacturer, where the workers would from time to time throw candy over a back wall for the children to enjoy.
The children would lie in wait and rush to collect their sweets and toffees in unbridled joy.
As a teenager Allen equated pretty girls in their short skirts and colourful Carnaby street clothes with the candy store.
Always exploring as a boy, Allen and a cousin found in tunnel that was an escaped passage from Stirling Castle, previously unknown.
Inside they found the remains of a dead soldier of King James era, armour and weapons.
He said the story was featured in a local paper at the time, and the find carded away to a museum.
He became fascinated with these rat holes that ran to and from the castle for miles, to secret people in and out unknown.
How many centuries in the past had people carved these hidden, underground worlds, so like the mines?
The early Christians with their underground churches?
The Greeks and their cave temples?
The Turks and Dering Cuyu, wading out Armageddon?
Allen had a boyhood friend who he called the Mad Irishman.
He was an anarchic red-haired sprite who took delight in mayhem, always with a gaffawing laugh.
Together they would build soapbox racing cars to speed down the highest highland hill they could drag it up.
The Mad Irishman once set up a ramp for the soapbox racer and was rolling on the ground laughing when Allen went flying over it and into a wall, smash.
On one of their meanderings, searching for parts, the two came across a group of drunken gypsy tinkers.
They were gathered around a fire, whiskey in hand.
They were not the romantic gypsies of legend, but foul and stinking and violent, two men and a woman.
One of the men violently attacked the woman, beating in her head.
They watched the attack and ran away and reported it to the police in hopes of saving the woman.
The police of Allen’s childhood were bobbies, no guns.
They didn’t have the menacing aspect of today.
Their cars were blue and white.
While sometimes bullies joined their ranks, the officers of that era were generally more helpful, but one thing they had in common were they were all masons, the checkerboard advertised on their hats.
One of Allen’s grandfathers, had been a high mason, and a head in the coal miners’ union.
At a certain point, the grandfather decried it all as a con, and understood himself to be manipulated to influence the men and used, and walked away from it.
Some of his Allen’s uncles, who served in the Royal Air Force, were masons as well.
Allen’s own fascination with free masonry came as a small boy.
When attending some sort of jubilee, one of his uncles held him up to a keyhole and he was allowed to peer into one of the masons’ halls.
He saw the black and white tessellated floor, Jacob’s ladder to nowhere, the all-seeing eye, costumes and grandeur.
These mysterious symbols and the question of what they meant stuck with him.
When at elementary school, men came from England to speak with his parents about his intelligence, and taking him away for schooling.
His parents would not consent to England, but it was agreed that he would be moved to a more advanced school in Scotland, where he would live with another family.
Allen’s family struggled for him to afford school clothes and the clothes he wore were second-hand.
He recalled the second-hand hobnail shoes we wore, resold and resold.
As a boy he had to work to pay for his board with these other families.
He recalled carrying heavy bags of coal and his aching back as a boy.
He worked inside some ancient textile stone mill, weaving, and despised its crumbling walls and drudgery.
He worked in a grocery for a butcher he despised, who would sell wretched meat.
Allen had no special love for these adopted families and rather seemed to despise the way he was treated by some.
His stories reminded me of David Copperfield and the Blacking Factory.
This situation created a distance between Allen and his blood family.
When he returned home, he bunked in the same room as his father, his parents no longer sharing a bed.
Allen’s father was bewildered by the boy.
While Allen’s father was trying a learn-from-home course to repair TVs, the boy succeeded without effort, while the father struggled.
Allen repaired and loved radios as well, particularly shortwave radios.
He would stay up late, listening to broadcasts from around the world, coming to understand the radio as a voice of political propaganda,
be it the BBC or Radio Free Europe or the USSR and the voice of Moscow.
He became interested in radio signals, crystal radios, jamming, and all the elements that would begin to shape the Technitronic Society.
Allen had a natural aptitude for building with his hands.
He rebuilt cars, motorcycles, and engines.
He would dream about how to fix machinery.
How the pieces fit together.
What was wrong?
His brain constantly processing, he had a clearer idea of how to proceed after a night’s dreams.
He also built guitars.
He claimed to have built a co-molan lyre for the Scottish folk duo, the Chorys, who he admired as musicians, men and nationalists.
He said he had helped create some of their musical arrangements, under a pseudonym with the initials of WA, rather than awe.
As a small boy, one of Allen’s teachers began giving him the Biggles Books series with their colorful jackets and tails of high adventure and the RFC.
Allen would read them and then pass them on to other boys to read.
As soon as he was qualification age, he joined the the Scottish Cadet Program, Program Army Cadet Force, ACF, and Air Training Corps, ATC.
He trained and enjoyed it throughly, hiking through the Grampians, learning basic survival skills, camping and flying gliders.
Allen loved running and physical tests.
He would constantly test himself how he could improve, grow stronger, climb higher, do better and achieve.
Allen was smaller and younger than some of his new classmates.
He began studying karate for self-defense.
The dojo was in an old stone building with a set of winding stairs.
Allen claimed the building was haunted, and a cold wind of a resident ghost would pass him and his trainer on the stair.
After years of study, he became a black belt, and was confident in his ability to subdue or disarm anyone, even in his later years.
Allen once told me a story of how he gave advice to a fellow pupil, a small boy who was bullied to the extent where his life was in danger.
He had advised the boy to set up a trap involving a rope and a tree, noosing and strangling the aggressor.
He said the harassed boy was successful, and that the predator had been strangled to the point of being hospitalized with brain damage.
There was no satisfaction or regret in Allen’s voice.
I often thought the story was about himself, as he often used the phrase, What do you do with a mad dog?
After elementary school, the sexes were separated.
Allen attended a boy’s school.
He noticed a perversion in some of the headmasters early on, men taking too much pleasure in spanking the boys.
He stood up to one of them, grabbed the paddle from his hand when he was beating another, and reported the teacher.
He continued to be truant, and spent a good deal of time in old libraries, reading.
One of the few times the boys and girls would mix would be at Cayley dances.
Everyone knew the jig steps and would enjoy a lively evening with musicians playing all the old standards, fiddles and mandolins and guitars bouncing.
Allen always joke about picking up one of his first girlfriends, in a pink candy store wrapper.
Her granny was sitting in the living room, and when the girl came down, granny said, You can’t go out in your nightie.
One of Allen’s first guitars was a loud, clear-toned plywood guitar made in West Germany.
He had saved his earnings to buy it.
He practiced endlessly, until playing was as natural as talking.
He had a music teacher who had him first perform for rough and ready minors at a Scottish music hall.
He always recounted being in the dressing room, getting ready to perform and being met by a beautiful dancing girl, stark naked, putting on her scanty costume.
She smiled and showed her wares.
Another student, a girl dancer, did not fare well in front of the crowd, her nerves giving way.
Allen quickly got the swing of the folk songs that would get the place roaring, and loved the feeling of being in front of the crowd.
There was nothing like performing.
When a youthful Allen began playing these halls, he was always a bit shocked and dismayed by the women.
They were not the delicate graceful creatures of his imagination.
They drank, spoke crudely and in an openly sexual way, recounting their own conquests.
They were coarse and worse than the men.
Even as an adult, when a vibrator fell from a lady singer’s purse and she joked, Allen was filled with revulsion.
This duality was hard for him to process.
One of Allen’s mother’s best friends was a beautiful woman, lovely, fashionable clothes, styled hair, perfect makeup, with nice legs.
She had a husband, but she would just take off, disappear to London with stranger for long periods of time.
The husband would always take her back.
Allen thought she was a troubled soul.
He was captivated by her.
Allen used to play and practice with an old minor who played Hawaiian guitar.
The man was crippled from the years of labour, but could make the steel guitar lap instrument sing.
Allen would meet and practice with him regularly.
He hated the minor’s wife, who made no secret of the invalid being a burden to her.
When the old minor died the widow was a constant fixture spending the pension at the bingo parlor.
Allen claimed he had studied to be a doctor, a sort of doogie house-er, and that he had completed training and performed surgeries.
He described one of his favourite professors, and how to gather all the facts of making a diagnosis, in a Sherlock Holmes deductive logic way.
He also talked about the slop bucket that aborted babies were thrown into on Wednesday studies, and how one of his Catholic friends walked away from practice because of it.
He had an extensive knowledge of the human anatomy, all sorts of ailments and understood the human body like a mechanic, all the functions and links parts and pieces.
He could immediately refer to anatomy in the correct Latin terminology.
He would talk about being trained in bedside manner to assert authority.
He would cite and read the Lancet.
He talked about studying with a doctor who giving daily B12 shots to the elderly had reversed dementia, but the treatments were stopped, cited as too expensive.
Whether Allen actually completed this training or practiced as a doctor with papers and degrees, beyond residency I do not know.
He would sometimes talk about how a man on a soap box wearing rags could speak the truth, but would never have the public’s regard as the slick lying politician in a fine suit would.
I believe it true that Allen was qualified as a registered mental nurse, as a source online contributed.
Allen did work at Bells Dyke Hospital in Scotland.
He considered the sterling lunatic asylum one of the triumphs of the NHS system, a safe haven for the mad from the world, and the world from the mad.
There were men’s and women’s wards, with hospital grounds for the patients.
He told me it was as an intake doctor.
A young man was brought in raving like a lunatic, with no history of mental illness.
Allen checked him over to discover a small bite on his foot, and deducted it was rat bite fever induced hallucinations, and not lunacy, and was right.
He would tell me about the patients.
One was an older man, an established author, very intelligent, but clinically, deeply depressed, a voluntary admission.
He slit his throat while at the hospital.
Allen stitched him back together in an emergency operation.
A few months later he slit his throat again and died.
There was a young man who helped keep the grounds that lived in a trailer or caravan who Allen would check in on.
Long, hippy hair, he was an incredibly talented artist, who could draw anything with photographic detail.
He was also incurable schizophrenic, probably drug-induced.
Allen talked about how some of the LSD users never coming back from the brink, and how even marijuana in certain rare individuals could induce schizophrenia.
One of Allen’s good friends, another musician had gone crazy from LSD.
Allen had tried to talk him off a roof, balancing, trying to reach up and pluck down the moon.
When he was institutionalized, and Allen would visit him, trying to glimpse the person he had known.
There were catatonics.
And there were also the possessed.
These patients were beyond madness, something else moving through them, something cunning, something dark.
In that box of the unexplained, he put an incident of a patient who levitated above the hospital bed.
When this man came in to see the psychiatrist, he luridly spewed out to everyone in the room what they had been doing, the secret, hidden things they had been doing.
He described the psychiatrist’s latest encounter with his best friend’s wife.
From the expression on the psychiatrist’s face, Allen knew what it spoke was true.
And the things these patients knew and said and did defied any rational explanation.
At the hospital, Allen was acquainted with an orderly, a Polish man who had lived through the war, orphaned, scurrying through the wreckage, living on dead horsemeat as a young boy.
He told Allen he was going on vacation, and wanted to go down the river in a glass canoe so he could look at all the fish.
He was found drowned, and Allen was considered the person closest to him to identify the body.
When he saw him in the morgue, bloated and discolored, his eyes had been eaten away, and small crabs were still on the body.
Allen couldn’t eat crabs or bottom feeders after that.
Allen worked for a time in an STD clinic.
He was disgusted by what came in.
He had to remove a light bulb from a homosexual’s asshole.
If it had completely shattered, it would have shredded the man’s rectum.
After extraction, he held it up to the patient and said, not such a bright idea.
That was Allen’s sense of humor.
He would see the same faces over and over, contracting the same infections or a combination of infections week after week.
By the time AIDS rolled onto the scene, still a mystery at the time, Allen wanted nothing to do with any of it.
He told me a few stories of his doctoring days.
He did house calls in the Highlands and was taken out in a helicopter to some of the offshore rigs.
He threw the medical bag in his three-wheeled Robin Reliant.
I always thought Allen’s love of the Sin Eater film was related to his experiences making these house calls, alone, far up to remote crops in the Highlands,
being bedside with the dying.
The NHS didn’t pay like the for-profit American system.
Allen said like the Soviet Union, people who went into medicine did it because they wanted to help, not to make money.
Allen said he walked away from being a doctor to pursue his greatest love, music.
Allen traveled Europe on a motorcycle.
He loved motorcycles and had been working on bikes since he was a teenager.
Honda, Japanese made, was his favorite.
He had a motorcycle wreck in Norway on a very cold winter’s night that he almost died from.
He saw his mother standing there in front of him as he was freezing.
His mother knew of his wreck already when she was informed, and said she’d seen the whole thing.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Allen grew to have a fascination with the occult, the hidden hand and spiritual phenomena.
One of his uncles had a woman on the coast.
She and all her kin had the second sight and always knew when fishermen was lost at sea.
It made his uncle uncomfortable until they finally split.
Allen’s mother believed in all sorts of paranormal and supernatural entities.
Her house was populated with ghosts who would walk down corridors, and open and shut doors.
She claimed to have seen the little people with a teacup on a shelf.
She claimed that as a toddler Allen had escaped death by a phenomena of Bilo cation.
She and a neighbor had seen him in the path of an oncoming horses and carriage, and thought him trampled,
only for him to appear happy and playing elsewhere.
Her family had the second sight.
Allen believed at times that she herself was possessed.
He claimed in her sleep she spoke in a strange dead Aramaic language.
As a teenager Allen and a friend approached members of the Scottish spiritualist church about his mother.
He was fascinated by the spiritualists, and claimed he saw on of the mediums take on a spirit with the aspects of his face
change into another, as if a veil of another came across his face.
Allen did not feel any kinship with the doer fire and brimstone Presbyterian church of control and the Kirk.
He saw nothing threatening in the channelers and their healing circles.
He attended some of their meetings, with the burgeoning interest in theosophy.
The spiritualist movement had taken a foothold in Scotland after the devastating loss of World War I.
After an entire generation of young men wiped out, survivors desperately wanted to speak with the lost dead, so abruptly and senselessly gone.
While channeling was condemned as witchcraft by the Presbyterian church, it was very natural to an older druidic-slash-Seltic culture of shamanism
that still spoke in remnants of Scots and Gaelic.
Spiritualism had a renewed vigor with the New Age cults and religions like Findhorn, which Allen recognized in the Masonic New Age magazine
distributed to his uncles.
Allen loved to read Arthur Conan Doyle, a fellow Scott and great supporter of the spiritualist movement.
While he approached it all with skepticism, he believed in the reality of the two worlds.
He started to read the Kabbalah, Grimoires, Blavatsky, Manly Peahall, Jung, John D., any text that claimed to have secret knowledge.
Allen was a stargazer.
He became interested in the mystery religions, and specifically the one mystery religion that linked them all.
Texts that were published as secret knowledge for the common Freemason, like the Kaibalion, referenced the hermetic religion of Hermes Trismegistus
as the conveyor of magic, scientific and mathematical knowledge through the centuries.
It was my understanding from conversation that this religion, a template for priests of ancient Egypt, Pythagoreanism,
Platonic philosophy were the remnants, conveyance of gathered knowledge from survivors of a previous, worldwide-entered Illuvian civilization,
from before the Indian Vedas.
Myths of Atlantis, a world now under the sea, were vestiges of this.
It was a culture that left standing stones across the world.
It was a culture that shared the same astronomy, seafaring symbols, stories of animals and gods in the sky.
Allen talked about the Indus Valley Civilization, Mohenjo Darrow and Harappa and suggestions of a civilization with vitrified bricks suggesting nuclear power,
citing refences to advanced weaponry in the Vedas and the Bhagavad Gita Book of Drona.
Allen’s beliefs regarding civilization, and previous ages very much aligned with what Graham Hancock has brought to light in his extensive investigations.
Allen talked about the priests of ancient Egypt and Greece having contact and training in India, not just trade, but training.
Much later, the hierarchical system of the British Freemason and the Hindu worked well together, having originally the same origin.
Plato’s Republic was a model of the mystery-religion society, the ultimate goal, the masons and Zion’s temple, the perfected pyramid hierarchy system.
It was not just the individual soul, but the collective society’s soul.
Allen didn’t believe the New World of America was new.
He believed it was an old world, already known about, to be recovered.
Allen was very interested in Barry Fell author of America BC.
Also his association with Thor hired a son, fueled this speculation, that these lands had been accessed long ago.
Allen believed there was a vested interest by the people of one god to keep believing all civilization was derived from Mesopotamia, when it wasn’t.
Allen claimed he had witnessed poltergeist activity in one of the homes he was hosted in.
The dinner table and chairs lifting from the floor, dishes flying from the cabinets, smashing on walls.
He claimed to see ghosts, like an old VHS recording, replaying the same actions over and over, walking down halls.
He claimed to see the ghosts of soldiers fighting battles on the fields of Bannockburn and Culloden.
He had also seen what he considered demons, rogued, black things absorbing light, red-eyed and fanged.
The miners too were superstitious.
In one of the mines a fungus was found perfectly mimicking a hand, and the miners were convinced it was a dead miner’s hand supernaturally grown in the pits, after a tunnel collapse.
One of Allen’s uncles had a woman on the coast.
She and all her kin had the second sight and always knew when fishermen was lost at sea.
It made his uncle uncomfortable until they finally split.
Allen’s first sexual experience was at 13 with an Irish girl who claimed to be a witch, fumbling in the back seat of the car, on a family trip.
He claimed a poltergeist came into the home of one of his host families, with the table and chairs floating in air, and dishes flying.
When boarding at medical school, he claimed to have seen a demon, walking up the stair, through the hall, to his friend’s room.
In my own experience, Allen really did have the gift of second sight.
He saw not just deductive, logical conclusions, but deep insights into people and events, that could not be known to him.
Christians might call it demonic.
Celts called it an deshelod.
He often made me think of Burton in the Medusa touch, minus the sinister intention.
I think he would search out articles and research to prove the things he saw.
Some think of it as a gift or a blessing.
I think of Allen’s talents are more like the curse of Cassandra of Troy, seeing the future without being believed or the ability to change the outcome.
He would often have premonitions of events in his own life.
In his early twenties, Allen lived in the True Highlands, near Loch Ness and then in Verness.
He had a friend he called the poacher, whose renegade spirit he admired greatly.
The poacher carried feisty ferrets and nets in his pockets, and poached rabbits on the Lord’s land.
When caught by the gamekeeper and called to court, Barry was always defiant, refusing to pay or submit.
The poacher had drawn one of the original posters slash art for Led Zeppelin, the Zoho Hermit if memory serves.
Allen called the poacher Barry occasionally, so it must have been the reclusive Barrington Colby.
Barry was friends with Jimmy Page, and through him Allen was invited to one of Page’s famous wild parties, full of European girls, at the Alastair Crowley’s Bullskine House.
At the party, trying to find the bathroom, Allen claimed he walked in on Mick Jagger and his guitar hero, Eric Clapton in bed together, and being shocked.
Allen believed the things Crowley had conjured lingered in that ancient place.
One story that always stuck with me was Allen was up in the Highlands playing and drinking at a party.
He got into his friend’s car, the friend drunk and driving.
It was a cold night and a winding road.
His friend collided into a convertible of young people, three if I remember correctly.
Everyone but Allen died in the crash.
Allen was relatively unscathed.
He got out and walked from maimed body to body, no pulse, no life.
Silence.
Allen had been trained not to remain calm, not get emotional as a doctor, but I can’t imagine.
Allen loved the Highlands, Inverness and Loch Ness.
Allen had befriended a lord who let him live greatest in one of his estate cottages on his estate, where Allen wrote on songs.
The cottage had thick, thick stone walls.
He would go hiking and exploring in the Grampians, finding cairns, ruins and standing stones.
He would often talk about the clave of cairns, and believed an ancient people, an antediluvian civilization had peopled the world,
and that our history was written by a people determined to make the region of their one true God as the false source of all things.
He loved the old thatched-roofed crops from a bygone century.
Allen described once climbing down a cliffside of Loch Ness and finding a monk’s cell carved into the cliff.
It was a magical.
He wondered if he was the first person who’d been there since the monk.
He never saw the Loch Ness monster, like Saint Columba, but he always wanted to believe such things were in the realm of existence.
A police chief he knew swore he’d seen the monster looming, but he was also a man known to have more than a nip of whiskey.
Allen also visited the Findhorn Utopian community while living in the Highlands.
He recalled the pretty girls and their simple trust, the giant vegetables, and the belief in a new society.
It spurred his later interest in kibbutz, the oneedia community, and other communes as an outgrowth of older religions, of Nostism, the Boga Mills and the Cathars.
Allen would talk of Thomas More and his Utopia, Francis Bacon’s New Utopia.
And the great experiment of democracy in America, thesis.
The other great experiment was Communism in the Soviet Union, antithesis.
The synthesis was China, a mixture of both, which would eventually be the UN’s New World Order government.
The world planners and the new society didn’t need most of us, which is where eugenics came in.
Those who had obtained wealth and were part of the elite, the successful genes, like in Huxley’s Brave New World would remain.
The wheat.
The shaft, the rest of us, would be gently genocide, in the most humane possible way.
The great violent genocides of WWI, World War II, a century of war, and the communist cleansings just hadn’t done the job.
People would be taught to embrace their own selfishness, forever children at play, shala, la-la-la-la, live for today, and don’t worry about tomorrow, hey, hey, hey, hey.
Aborting their offspring, a sacrifice to Moloch.
They would embrace what had once been known as evil as freedom infertility through vaccines and diet, GMO foods that would modify the genes of those who ingested it.
Bertrand Russell’s this utopian society come to fruition was the great work the Solomon’s Temple that free masonry, Communism, with Zionism at its pinnacle as the all-seeing eye were working to build.
Allen thought this was an attempt to institute a system, the hierarchical Beehive system.
It would be just to do away with the masses, degenerate and evil as Sodom and Gomorrah.
Allen thought the book The White Cutter by David Pownell was a good allegory for the way European civilization was organized and run, experiments on systems for society.
These little utopian communities were funded and watched by the society’s owners and experts.
Allen did not subscribe to the American brand of Christianity and was very much a Gnostic Christian.
It made him a suspicious character for the Bible-beaters of Christian radio.
He believed in the demiurge, and that the world was inherently flawed and evil.
He sought SPRI ritual knowledge or gnosis to obtain he did not want children.
That’s one mistake I didn’t make.
He was interested in the film The Sin Eater.
While Allen was on air critical of New Age religions, while he didn’t participate, he did mix in those circles.
In the Toronto area Allen had a male friend who owned a video store who was a Wiccan warlock.
The warlock was an investigator into conspiratorial histories as well.
Allen attended his Wiccan wedding.
The warlock was a heavy-set man.
He had a witches circle of eight around him, who he and his witch-wife both coupled with.
Allen said the witch-wife eventually poisoned the warlock.
I guess that’s one of a witch’s garden talents.
Canada
Allen wanted out of Britain.
He admitted when he proposed marriage proposal to his future wife part of the motivation was Canadian citizenship.
She was beautiful, with a beautiful body, but he had not respect for her intellect.
He used to tell the story that he picked up a replica Rolex for her in a Toronto market.
She had it appraised the next day, and was angry when it wasn’t the real McCoy.
The two did not have children.
Allen always said that was one mistake he never made.
Allen used to sit at a corner café in Toronto and meet a Jamaican musician for coffee.
It was a busy intersection and he would watch the wrecks.
They would chat about local music and life.
Allen was not part of the Canadian Musicians Union.
Allen didn’t really like the size and business of Toronto.
He didn’t speak much about it.
I remember him talking about being at the dinner table with his wife’s family.
Allen’s mother-in-law used to meet once a year with a former lover with her husband’s approval.
His newly graduated sister-in-law had just travelled Europe and had trysts with strangers which Allen condemned.
His father-in-law had a high-ranking position with a Canadian bank.
He was not happy with the union.
Allen and his wife had a condo in Toronto. One of their neighbours died, a widower, and nobody noticed for weeks. Allen was asked to climb in through an upstairs window to check on him.
He did and found him dead inside. Allen discovered that his wife had been unfaithful, after a night out with her girlfriends. Unwilling or unable to forgive her, he came back to an empty condo.
She also emptied his bank accounts when she disappeared. He said her name was not on the account, and she shouldn’t have had access. The account was with the father-in-law’s bank, and she did. He said, she beat me to the punch.
He waited it out for his citizenship to be legal. Allen had what I would call beyond bad luck with vehicles. He painstakingly restored a muscle car, everything, the engine, brakes, new paint job.
He was going to take it on its first official drive to pick up a date. Driving it out, down the road, a realtor who had just received a call for a showing,plowed straight into it from an alley, total wreck.
Allen for a time had an interest in carpentry.
He loved the feel of wood and working with his hands.
In Ontario he studied carpentry at a polytechnic school.
He worked for a master carpenter cabinet maker as part of his apprenticeship.
He would also craft and sell replicated chip and ale furniture.
To complete the hours for his apprenticeship towards Red Seal Master Carpenter requirements,
he worked at a wood factory that manufactured outdoor furniture.
Allen disliked the place, with the stench of cancer causing chemical finishes and preservatives.
Giant extractor fans and machinery ran with constant noise.
A married woman, the factory mattress came on to him, and he turned her down flat.
Her vanity wounded, she reported him to a supervisor as smelling bad from sweating in the hot shop.
The supervisor called Allen into his office, with the smirk and handed him a stick of deodorant.
A furious Allen, restraining himself from decking the guy, stated he wasn’t putting cancer causing aluminum under his arms and walked out.
I don’t know if he finished his master carpenter journeyman path.
I do think exposure to all the toxic chemical finish fumes did damage further damage the heavy smokers lungs.
After leaving Toronto, Allen moved north, I think outside of Berry, in a small rural community.
At first he rented in town, but eventually he lived in an old farmhouse that was owned by a wealthy businessman.
He did handyman work and sold furniture he had made by the roadside.
He was a caretaker on the property, fixing things.
He claimed the place was haunted, that he would see a woman walking the upstairs corridor straight through, no facial features, turn of the century hair and dress.
She repeated the same acts like an echo, unaware of his presence.
Nothing menacing.
There was a henhouse in the barn.
I remember Allen the raccoons breaking in and devastating the hens, maiming and murdering.
A fox would take what he would eat.
The raccoons at the eggs and killed the chickens for pleasure.
Car troubles continued at the farmhouse.
Behind the farmhouse, the property owner grew Christmas trees to be harvested.
A tractor trailer pulled up, and having the entire lot to park in, backed up and pulverized Allen’s car, another restoration vehicle.
After this insult to injury, he bought and rehabilitated his old pickup truck.
He seemed to really enjoy his stay there for a time.
He worked with stained glass.
He made friends with an older local oddball, picking metal parts at the local dump, a jack of all trades, the beekeeper.
The beekeeper did a bit of everything.
He ran the dump, he did auto work, he built, he was the local dog catcher, and he kept beehives.
The beekeeper was a hoarder.
He had barns and huts full of all sorts of interesting parts and pieces, pre-war mechanical, everything imaginable, presumably fished out of the dump.
When the beekeeper who was a renter, had to move it was a hell of a thing.
The beekeeper told Allen all about the queen bees and the nature of the hives.
The queen bee would kill her rivals.
When the old queen became old or weak, the workers raised a new queen, the victorious female would kill her sister slash rivals.
Allen often talked about how in Masonic symbology, the beehive reflected the perfect hierarchal society.
The queen was the ruler or monarch.
The drones, males, were the elite class slash nobility.
They did not work.
Their role was to contribute the good genes, to mate with the queen.
The guard bees, drawn from the worker bee class were the police slash military, who protected the hive and maintained order.
The worker bees, working class, performed all the tasks and could not reproduce, living to serve their betters.
Anyhow, Allen got fresh delicious honey from his friend.
While a friend, Allen considered him a bit psychopathic in that he killed dogs as animal control without the least hesitation.
Once, when Allen went to visit in the beekeeper’s house, he was shocked to see a giant closet packed with extreme, bizarre VHS porn videos.
Eventually the beekeeper, who inherited his father’s estate took up with a pretty young thing, a big tit blonde, straight out of the videos, who he married.
Presumably the agreement was everything would be hers soon.
Allen had another friend who was a charming natural con man, a young Ojibwe Indian who knew every welfare benefit in the book by heart.
He could recite like a lawyer what the government owed him.
He was a bit of a womanizer.
Allen seemed to enjoy his moxie.
The friend Allen mentioned the most, who visited him occasionally when he uprooted to Estair was Brian.
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Karen<[email protected]>
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Dec 31, 2025Wednesday, December 31st, 2025 at 8:53 PM
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Wednesday, December 31st, 2025 at 8:53 PM
Hello,
I’m not a professional grifter. I spent a decade trying to help expose a system that is now inevitable, and I’m done. Don’t care. Done. Not a saint, not a martyr. Don’t owe anybody an explanation. I’ve got other things I’d rather be doing. It’s all over bar the shouting, as Alan used to say.
What I will do is work on a biography of Alan based on our years and years of conversations . I have no way of proving any of it. If Alan was a liar, he was a very consistent one, because his stories which he repeated never changed. He definitely obfuscated a lot, so who knows. I will try to have a rough draft by March and will share it with you to post wherever you like for free. If someone who has previously hit you with ‘copyright infringement’ tries to make trouble, feel free to hit them back.
Alan was my close friend. I’d like him to be remembered as the good man that he was, and he wouldn’t have been opposed to that. He wanted his work shared by his listeners, not perverted into a fringe cult. He only asked for what he needed to survive.
Alan had a bleeding ulcer, severe rheumatoid arthritis, and pneumonias which he tried to treat himself almost every winter. HIs previous medical emergency, in late 2019, was blastomycosis pneumonia, from all that rotten, punky wood he used to feed into the wood stove. It nearly killed him, and definitely did severe damage to his lungs. This continues to be a killer in Sudbury. It came out in the media that the forest areas had aerial herbicide spraying, which was/is the cause.
It’s possible that this Melissa came in to ‘help’ after he was debilitated, because I remember him once mentioning he was going to have a housekeeper in to help him, which could have been someone he already knew circa Patru days? Once Covid hit, she may have parked herself there after March 2020 when the lockdown started? If so, he kept it a secret.
All I know is the person who called to inform me of his death immediately started in, “You were his friend, but I was his Partner.” Totally insincere voice, like a bad actress. Best case scenario, agent infiltrator. Worst case scenario a narcissistic sociopath parasite.
He definitely did not have anyone in his home prior to the medical emergency. Before his being in ER we spoke nightly for hours, and I never heard any noise or voice in the background. He made his own meager dinner every night and fed Hamish from the plate, he shoveled his own snow, gathered his own wood.
He had a clapped out old trailer on his property with a collapsing roof, but anyone in that would have frozen to death.
If Alan had a wife, she would have named in a will. His wife was his work. Wife=Archive Website. His one true love was Hamish, the dog. He was heartbroken when he he wasn’t healthy enough to care for him any longer, and the tumor on Hamish’s mouth was too severe.
The last time I spoke with Alan, two nights before his death, he ominously said “Something has happened, but I can’t say on the phone.” That could literally have been anything.
He generally didn’t use peoples names, but he regularly mentioned people in his life. A former Scientologist who did transcriptions, which would have been Diana. He did name Jo Leigh who independently posted on youtube and bitchute, who he spoke with around once a month. He was fond of Brandon Turbeville. He had a Scottish friend in Ohio, who had type I diabetes, with a cat who hunted rabbits, but I’ve no clue if he’s still alive. I don’t know any of these contributors personally and have no connection with any of them.
Anyhow, that’s all. I’ll send you whatever I’ve botched together for a bio in locked PDF form in March.
Sincerely Yours,
Karen
On Wednesday, December 31, 2025 at 09:07:45 AM EST, selenite2 <selenite2protonmail.com> wrote:
Really Karen, really ? And you waited eh….four years to start telling us …if you suspect ” foul play” really…not too convincing..especially after I had to motivate you a few times, gosh how caring you are to Alan, really …impressed…. you flip flop…more Guru creation..
Anyway we post Karen´s Myth Making Story about Alan Watt here, to get it over with , but as expected it contains no valid information about Karen or Alan, not about their relationship or any verified facts , thus it is a very disappointing story just anecdotes for Hero Creation. Vague accusations …rumors, gossip, some facts here and there but not too relevant..
Where are YOU in this story , Karen ?? Oh you ” only talked to Alan” just like that, sure and I am mickey mouse…you have to believe me Karen, honestly..don´t you dare to doubt me.
But you never bothered to question hmm ?
Just say yes and amen and that is that, wow that is some friend.. oh Alan had a hatred for Alex Jones and Icke, ” Eiche” really well he did not mind showing up at Alex , many times ..duhh..come on it is all hypocrite..contradictions…
Don´t bother yourself looking into facts, mrs Hollingsworth..oh by the way..children…Karen did send me her hmm product but , soon after, the cult from Texas took it down, naturally.
The link was … https://archive.org/details/the-sometim ... -alan-watt
Well, luckily , I downloaded it immediately as you have to do that nowadays as things tend to disappear rather fast..if not authorized..I have my own Linux transcription robot so I transcribed the audio into text, it is not perfect but at least readable, so , there you go.
The sometimes true history of Alan Watt, real and invented tales as told to me by my closest and dearest friend.
No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.
Aristotle
Alan Watt was born on the surface of the Bannock Burn, Scotland’s son of a miner, grandson of a miner.
Post World War II Scotland was still a world from another century, with ever-present reminders of the past.
An aurora borealis magical horizon was silhouetted by great stone castles and forts, standing stones in the fields, and highland ghosts of Wallace and the Bruce re-enacting lost battles in the mist.
Beneath those green fields, carved deep underground, was a rabbit’s whore in of coal tunnels, cutting a matrix of great halls, passages and rooms.
A scene world above, and a secret, complicated, unseen world below.
It was a world with filled radio waves streaming sounds of the future from distant shores, and grandmothers on the stoop spinning wool, telling mystical tales of little people and second sight.
A World in Transition
This world of the Bannock Burn coal mines had owners.
Its heads were a myriad of directors and experts who planned the direction of future excavations and held maps of the existing tunnels.
The planners drafted not just the paths to and through the seams, but a directed a closed hierarchical system of society.
The miners earned just enough to pay for food and board, with an occasional holiday, but no more.
There was no way out of Plato’s cave into the light.
The miners only had each other and their families to fight for their rights and survival.
When the alarm sounded from the mines, ringing through the community, through the schoolyards, everyone prayed it wasn’t their father or brother or beau in the collapse.
Allen understood the greater world as being run just as the mines.
As a small boy resolved that he would never break his back, being a miner.
Allen’s family’s first home was a squalid tenement row house, a remnant of the 1800s, damp plaster and stone, full of mold.
As a small child, Allen was struck with scarlet fever, or rather rheumatic fever, which would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He recalled slipping in and out of consciousness, hallucinating, sweating, writing in pain.
A doctor was called to the house, hovering over the boy, his crying mother, saying, he will not live through the night.
Allen too ill to speak heard him and cursed them over and over in his head, damn, you, I’m going to live.
I’m going to live.
I’m going to live.
They believed him almost dead for a time through that long night, but he did live.
He lived, changed.
Allen’s father’s family claimed descent from the steam engine of Scotland, inventor James Watt.
Whatever fortune once associated with the name was squandered long ago with bad investments and poor politics.
The only remnants of the great man held were left on scraps of papers letters relating to the lunar society, held in the drawers of old aunties.
I think the paternal Watt grandfather was a known bursaker.
He was a prop drawer, the man who knocked out the supports when the tunnels were to be collapsed.
It was the best pay for a man in the mines, far better than a hewer or store.
He was fearless.
And he was dangerous.
The other men were scared to be on a crew with him, too reckless.
As a boy, well below the age of enlisting this grandfather had joined up for the Great War, to escape being a hewer with his burrow the coal dust.
He loved the adventure of being overseas, and grew more than a foot, having access to canned meat and real food for the first time.
He joined up again for the Second War with his sons, in search of adventure again.
He spent a long time in North Africa, too long, and there was something strange about him.
As a boy, Allen overheard one of his uncles and his grandfather reminiscing of their war days, finding they had enjoyed best the same fat whore in France and laughed.
The other, maternal grandfather had joined the Irish supporting the IRA during World War II.
Allen condemned his efforts.
As an adult, Allen visited and played music in Northern Ireland during the Troubles.
Accompanying an Irish friend into corner shop for cigarettes, he recalled a gang of IRA thugs coming in and pressing the shopkeeper for cash with the threat of violence, just like the mafia.
Allen saw the British government in London as running both sides, and the citizens as the victims.
He disdained the orange men as well, and their parades condemning the Catholics.
Allen was a second child.
His older sister resented sharing the scraps that the young family lived on.
She tormented him.
He had a budgie that he loved very much, and kept in a cage, letting him fly loose in his room.
His sister, angry with him one day purposefully opened the window and let the bird loose to fly outdoors.
He never saw the bird again, and believed it attacked and killed by other, predator birds.
He forever thought her selfish, hard, and mean and the two never got along.
Canaries were still used in Scotland’s coal mines, jolly little yellow sprites, who sang their sweet songs in the dark.
When they fell silent, the men fled, knowing there was a gas pocket and death ahead.
Allen could whistle and mimic different bird songs and calls with an amazing accuracy.
But more amazing was his ability to create harmonies to these melodies and shape full songs from them.
Little Symphonies of Whistling
Allen’s mother worked as a maid in a wealthy household for a time, to supplement the family’s modest income.
When Allen’s musical abilities were noticed by her employer, he was allowed into the home to learn a play the piano and the large conservatory pedal harp.
Whoever this man was, he was an early patron, and I believe brought Allen’s exceptional talents and intelligence to the attention of others.
The miners were great singers themselves, with choirs of men who traveled performed.
Allen’s father had a great tenor voice, and had hoped to have a career in his youth.
He sang in the miners’ choir and played the trumpet with a miners’ band.
As a toddler, Allen took his father’s golden trumpet, and went missing on a journey, wandering miles and miles away, with half the town searching for him.
He wanted a trumpet of his own.
When he was found, and returned he was eventually given a toy trumpet, but it was no substitute for the real one.
Allen always loved animals.
As a very tiny boy, home alone on a rainy day, Allen heard a scratching at the front door.
He opened it to find a very wet raven.
He invited the bird in to share the fireside, and it hopped in and to Allen’s delight, sat with him by the fire, warming itself.
After his feathers had dried the boy watch him puff himself out, only in great dismay to notice tiny mites crawling all over him.
Oh, no.
I’m afraid you must go.
He opened the window, and the bird cordially obliged, and left.
By the time his family could afford a second-hand black and white TV, he had his own hammoth a hamster, named from Tales from the Riverbank.
He would feed the cart-horses apples whenever he could manage to get one from his earnings.
He helped a local farmer muck barns for a time, to earn money for the candy shop, and would go out and pet the gentle red-highland cattle with their long bangs,
who he especially loved.
But Allen’s greatest love was always for dogs.
He longed for a dog.
He and his cousin found a half-drowned pup someone had tied in a bag, which he swam out to retrieve.
He brought the dog home, and begged to keep it.
His parents took the dog away, to a pound, where he believed it was killed, and he resented that his whole life.
As an adult, whenever he could Allen always kept and held a special, loyal love and bond with a dog.
Allen’s mother hated the family’s poverty, and would harangue his father coming in from the pits stinking, covered in dust, I could have married a dentist.
She instilled the sentiment in his sister, who grew up to be beautiful and willful, he said favoring the actress Nicole Kidman.
His sister became the mistress of a well-known lord, who reveled in pissing on the people below from his helicopter.
When she married, she treated her first husband with the same disdain.
The second husband, a Catholic with a stern hand took no disrespect from her, and she worshipped him, Meek as a lamb.
Allen would take no disrespect from a woman, and always thought it imperative to be the leader, to not show weakness, or you would be despised.
Another of Allen’s mother’s jobs as a boy was as a ticket-taker at a local Madden A. Theatre.
Allen would join her, and watch the double features for free.
He particularly loved the science fiction and alien movies.
He remembered invaders from Mars with its buried UFOs and mind-control crystals planted into the base of the victim’s skulls.
This predictive programming idea, of the brain-chip stuck with Allen, who watched its evolution to a potential reality.
He was also a fan of the quarter-mass series.
Allen had a series of events in his life that he said, he would file away in a box or drawer as unexplained.
He seldom shared them, because he realized people would think him mad.
He’d say, I know this happened, but I cannot explain it.
As a boy, he claimed to be approached by something or someone akin to a gray.
He said the thing was wearing a trench coat and a hat, but was featureless.
He claimed the gray scanned his mind, reading his thoughts.
He shared the experience with his horrified mother.
As an adult he did not know what to make of it, searching for an answer.
Was it an alien?
Was it a demon?
Was it one of the many fairy creatures of myth?
Was it a government experiment?
But he did not believe it was his imagination, inspired by the many Madden A. films.
When he was a bit older, Allen’s family moved into a council house, which was clean and healthy.
When he spoke of his early school days, before the sexes were separated, he always remembered a pale pretty,
frail little blonde girl who was introduced to the class, who sat behind him.
So very nice.
So kind.
She had leukemia.
He always made a special effort to help her, and seemed to have a special love in his heart for her.
One day she never came back.
At school, it was noticed that Allen was unusually intelligent for his age.
He had no great love for school though, and would run play truant whenever possible.
He had hiding places, a giant hollowed-out tree he would reside in like a medieval monk.
He would read books inside, and when it was safe from being captured, climb up into its great branches.
He loved to wander down streams and linger beneath bridges.
An uncle had taught him to guttle fish, rubbing the trout’s belly to scoop him up, and Allen would light a fire and make his lunch of him.
He’d search for nests of goose eggs on the edge of streams to eat as well.
He loved to wander and explore, walking alone up the long winding roads into the countryside.
Allen had two elderly maiden aunties who he would visit, in their antique lace, part of the Watt family, with the connection to Ireland.
They were Catholic and had lost their sweethearts in the First Great War.
In Scotland, villages had lost entire generations of young men in the war.
The aunties never married after losing their loves.
When he’d leave them, they’d always say, We love you and wish you in heaven, even though you’re not Catholic.
There was a pond where Allen liked to sit as a boy and watch the swans.
He romanticised swans mating for life, and would watch the pairs.
He claimed that after one of the swans’ mates had died, and he had witnessed a true swan dive there, where the widowed bird dived down and broke its own neck on the water.
He had many romanticised notions, and claimed that he began writing poems and songs, very young, which he first submitted and sold the rights to.
He was paid a flat fee, which to him was a fortune at the time.
The first he claimed became a well-known Peter, Paul and Mary song about the marriage of souls.
I have no way of knowing if any of this is really true, but it was certainly true to him in his mind.
As a boy, one of Allen’s other great joys was to somehow acquire a pence and go to the candy store.
The candy store was run by an old woman, with shelves full of great glass jars filled with bright, striped and wrappered delight.
His greatest glory was peppermint humbugs.
There was also a candy manufacturer, where the workers would from time to time throw candy over a back wall for the children to enjoy.
The children would lie in wait and rush to collect their sweets and toffees in unbridled joy.
As a teenager Allen equated pretty girls in their short skirts and colourful Carnaby street clothes with the candy store.
Always exploring as a boy, Allen and a cousin found in tunnel that was an escaped passage from Stirling Castle, previously unknown.
Inside they found the remains of a dead soldier of King James era, armour and weapons.
He said the story was featured in a local paper at the time, and the find carded away to a museum.
He became fascinated with these rat holes that ran to and from the castle for miles, to secret people in and out unknown.
How many centuries in the past had people carved these hidden, underground worlds, so like the mines?
The early Christians with their underground churches?
The Greeks and their cave temples?
The Turks and Dering Cuyu, wading out Armageddon?
Allen had a boyhood friend who he called the Mad Irishman.
He was an anarchic red-haired sprite who took delight in mayhem, always with a gaffawing laugh.
Together they would build soapbox racing cars to speed down the highest highland hill they could drag it up.
The Mad Irishman once set up a ramp for the soapbox racer and was rolling on the ground laughing when Allen went flying over it and into a wall, smash.
On one of their meanderings, searching for parts, the two came across a group of drunken gypsy tinkers.
They were gathered around a fire, whiskey in hand.
They were not the romantic gypsies of legend, but foul and stinking and violent, two men and a woman.
One of the men violently attacked the woman, beating in her head.
They watched the attack and ran away and reported it to the police in hopes of saving the woman.
The police of Allen’s childhood were bobbies, no guns.
They didn’t have the menacing aspect of today.
Their cars were blue and white.
While sometimes bullies joined their ranks, the officers of that era were generally more helpful, but one thing they had in common were they were all masons, the checkerboard advertised on their hats.
One of Allen’s grandfathers, had been a high mason, and a head in the coal miners’ union.
At a certain point, the grandfather decried it all as a con, and understood himself to be manipulated to influence the men and used, and walked away from it.
Some of his Allen’s uncles, who served in the Royal Air Force, were masons as well.
Allen’s own fascination with free masonry came as a small boy.
When attending some sort of jubilee, one of his uncles held him up to a keyhole and he was allowed to peer into one of the masons’ halls.
He saw the black and white tessellated floor, Jacob’s ladder to nowhere, the all-seeing eye, costumes and grandeur.
These mysterious symbols and the question of what they meant stuck with him.
When at elementary school, men came from England to speak with his parents about his intelligence, and taking him away for schooling.
His parents would not consent to England, but it was agreed that he would be moved to a more advanced school in Scotland, where he would live with another family.
Allen’s family struggled for him to afford school clothes and the clothes he wore were second-hand.
He recalled the second-hand hobnail shoes we wore, resold and resold.
As a boy he had to work to pay for his board with these other families.
He recalled carrying heavy bags of coal and his aching back as a boy.
He worked inside some ancient textile stone mill, weaving, and despised its crumbling walls and drudgery.
He worked in a grocery for a butcher he despised, who would sell wretched meat.
Allen had no special love for these adopted families and rather seemed to despise the way he was treated by some.
His stories reminded me of David Copperfield and the Blacking Factory.
This situation created a distance between Allen and his blood family.
When he returned home, he bunked in the same room as his father, his parents no longer sharing a bed.
Allen’s father was bewildered by the boy.
While Allen’s father was trying a learn-from-home course to repair TVs, the boy succeeded without effort, while the father struggled.
Allen repaired and loved radios as well, particularly shortwave radios.
He would stay up late, listening to broadcasts from around the world, coming to understand the radio as a voice of political propaganda,
be it the BBC or Radio Free Europe or the USSR and the voice of Moscow.
He became interested in radio signals, crystal radios, jamming, and all the elements that would begin to shape the Technitronic Society.
Allen had a natural aptitude for building with his hands.
He rebuilt cars, motorcycles, and engines.
He would dream about how to fix machinery.
How the pieces fit together.
What was wrong?
His brain constantly processing, he had a clearer idea of how to proceed after a night’s dreams.
He also built guitars.
He claimed to have built a co-molan lyre for the Scottish folk duo, the Chorys, who he admired as musicians, men and nationalists.
He said he had helped create some of their musical arrangements, under a pseudonym with the initials of WA, rather than awe.
As a small boy, one of Allen’s teachers began giving him the Biggles Books series with their colorful jackets and tails of high adventure and the RFC.
Allen would read them and then pass them on to other boys to read.
As soon as he was qualification age, he joined the the Scottish Cadet Program, Program Army Cadet Force, ACF, and Air Training Corps, ATC.
He trained and enjoyed it throughly, hiking through the Grampians, learning basic survival skills, camping and flying gliders.
Allen loved running and physical tests.
He would constantly test himself how he could improve, grow stronger, climb higher, do better and achieve.
Allen was smaller and younger than some of his new classmates.
He began studying karate for self-defense.
The dojo was in an old stone building with a set of winding stairs.
Allen claimed the building was haunted, and a cold wind of a resident ghost would pass him and his trainer on the stair.
After years of study, he became a black belt, and was confident in his ability to subdue or disarm anyone, even in his later years.
Allen once told me a story of how he gave advice to a fellow pupil, a small boy who was bullied to the extent where his life was in danger.
He had advised the boy to set up a trap involving a rope and a tree, noosing and strangling the aggressor.
He said the harassed boy was successful, and that the predator had been strangled to the point of being hospitalized with brain damage.
There was no satisfaction or regret in Allen’s voice.
I often thought the story was about himself, as he often used the phrase, What do you do with a mad dog?
After elementary school, the sexes were separated.
Allen attended a boy’s school.
He noticed a perversion in some of the headmasters early on, men taking too much pleasure in spanking the boys.
He stood up to one of them, grabbed the paddle from his hand when he was beating another, and reported the teacher.
He continued to be truant, and spent a good deal of time in old libraries, reading.
One of the few times the boys and girls would mix would be at Cayley dances.
Everyone knew the jig steps and would enjoy a lively evening with musicians playing all the old standards, fiddles and mandolins and guitars bouncing.
Allen always joke about picking up one of his first girlfriends, in a pink candy store wrapper.
Her granny was sitting in the living room, and when the girl came down, granny said, You can’t go out in your nightie.
One of Allen’s first guitars was a loud, clear-toned plywood guitar made in West Germany.
He had saved his earnings to buy it.
He practiced endlessly, until playing was as natural as talking.
He had a music teacher who had him first perform for rough and ready minors at a Scottish music hall.
He always recounted being in the dressing room, getting ready to perform and being met by a beautiful dancing girl, stark naked, putting on her scanty costume.
She smiled and showed her wares.
Another student, a girl dancer, did not fare well in front of the crowd, her nerves giving way.
Allen quickly got the swing of the folk songs that would get the place roaring, and loved the feeling of being in front of the crowd.
There was nothing like performing.
When a youthful Allen began playing these halls, he was always a bit shocked and dismayed by the women.
They were not the delicate graceful creatures of his imagination.
They drank, spoke crudely and in an openly sexual way, recounting their own conquests.
They were coarse and worse than the men.
Even as an adult, when a vibrator fell from a lady singer’s purse and she joked, Allen was filled with revulsion.
This duality was hard for him to process.
One of Allen’s mother’s best friends was a beautiful woman, lovely, fashionable clothes, styled hair, perfect makeup, with nice legs.
She had a husband, but she would just take off, disappear to London with stranger for long periods of time.
The husband would always take her back.
Allen thought she was a troubled soul.
He was captivated by her.
Allen used to play and practice with an old minor who played Hawaiian guitar.
The man was crippled from the years of labour, but could make the steel guitar lap instrument sing.
Allen would meet and practice with him regularly.
He hated the minor’s wife, who made no secret of the invalid being a burden to her.
When the old minor died the widow was a constant fixture spending the pension at the bingo parlor.
Allen claimed he had studied to be a doctor, a sort of doogie house-er, and that he had completed training and performed surgeries.
He described one of his favourite professors, and how to gather all the facts of making a diagnosis, in a Sherlock Holmes deductive logic way.
He also talked about the slop bucket that aborted babies were thrown into on Wednesday studies, and how one of his Catholic friends walked away from practice because of it.
He had an extensive knowledge of the human anatomy, all sorts of ailments and understood the human body like a mechanic, all the functions and links parts and pieces.
He could immediately refer to anatomy in the correct Latin terminology.
He would talk about being trained in bedside manner to assert authority.
He would cite and read the Lancet.
He talked about studying with a doctor who giving daily B12 shots to the elderly had reversed dementia, but the treatments were stopped, cited as too expensive.
Whether Allen actually completed this training or practiced as a doctor with papers and degrees, beyond residency I do not know.
He would sometimes talk about how a man on a soap box wearing rags could speak the truth, but would never have the public’s regard as the slick lying politician in a fine suit would.
I believe it true that Allen was qualified as a registered mental nurse, as a source online contributed.
Allen did work at Bells Dyke Hospital in Scotland.
He considered the sterling lunatic asylum one of the triumphs of the NHS system, a safe haven for the mad from the world, and the world from the mad.
There were men’s and women’s wards, with hospital grounds for the patients.
He told me it was as an intake doctor.
A young man was brought in raving like a lunatic, with no history of mental illness.
Allen checked him over to discover a small bite on his foot, and deducted it was rat bite fever induced hallucinations, and not lunacy, and was right.
He would tell me about the patients.
One was an older man, an established author, very intelligent, but clinically, deeply depressed, a voluntary admission.
He slit his throat while at the hospital.
Allen stitched him back together in an emergency operation.
A few months later he slit his throat again and died.
There was a young man who helped keep the grounds that lived in a trailer or caravan who Allen would check in on.
Long, hippy hair, he was an incredibly talented artist, who could draw anything with photographic detail.
He was also incurable schizophrenic, probably drug-induced.
Allen talked about how some of the LSD users never coming back from the brink, and how even marijuana in certain rare individuals could induce schizophrenia.
One of Allen’s good friends, another musician had gone crazy from LSD.
Allen had tried to talk him off a roof, balancing, trying to reach up and pluck down the moon.
When he was institutionalized, and Allen would visit him, trying to glimpse the person he had known.
There were catatonics.
And there were also the possessed.
These patients were beyond madness, something else moving through them, something cunning, something dark.
In that box of the unexplained, he put an incident of a patient who levitated above the hospital bed.
When this man came in to see the psychiatrist, he luridly spewed out to everyone in the room what they had been doing, the secret, hidden things they had been doing.
He described the psychiatrist’s latest encounter with his best friend’s wife.
From the expression on the psychiatrist’s face, Allen knew what it spoke was true.
And the things these patients knew and said and did defied any rational explanation.
At the hospital, Allen was acquainted with an orderly, a Polish man who had lived through the war, orphaned, scurrying through the wreckage, living on dead horsemeat as a young boy.
He told Allen he was going on vacation, and wanted to go down the river in a glass canoe so he could look at all the fish.
He was found drowned, and Allen was considered the person closest to him to identify the body.
When he saw him in the morgue, bloated and discolored, his eyes had been eaten away, and small crabs were still on the body.
Allen couldn’t eat crabs or bottom feeders after that.
Allen worked for a time in an STD clinic.
He was disgusted by what came in.
He had to remove a light bulb from a homosexual’s asshole.
If it had completely shattered, it would have shredded the man’s rectum.
After extraction, he held it up to the patient and said, not such a bright idea.
That was Allen’s sense of humor.
He would see the same faces over and over, contracting the same infections or a combination of infections week after week.
By the time AIDS rolled onto the scene, still a mystery at the time, Allen wanted nothing to do with any of it.
He told me a few stories of his doctoring days.
He did house calls in the Highlands and was taken out in a helicopter to some of the offshore rigs.
He threw the medical bag in his three-wheeled Robin Reliant.
I always thought Allen’s love of the Sin Eater film was related to his experiences making these house calls, alone, far up to remote crops in the Highlands,
being bedside with the dying.
The NHS didn’t pay like the for-profit American system.
Allen said like the Soviet Union, people who went into medicine did it because they wanted to help, not to make money.
Allen said he walked away from being a doctor to pursue his greatest love, music.
Allen traveled Europe on a motorcycle.
He loved motorcycles and had been working on bikes since he was a teenager.
Honda, Japanese made, was his favorite.
He had a motorcycle wreck in Norway on a very cold winter’s night that he almost died from.
He saw his mother standing there in front of him as he was freezing.
His mother knew of his wreck already when she was informed, and said she’d seen the whole thing.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Allen grew to have a fascination with the occult, the hidden hand and spiritual phenomena.
One of his uncles had a woman on the coast.
She and all her kin had the second sight and always knew when fishermen was lost at sea.
It made his uncle uncomfortable until they finally split.
Allen’s mother believed in all sorts of paranormal and supernatural entities.
Her house was populated with ghosts who would walk down corridors, and open and shut doors.
She claimed to have seen the little people with a teacup on a shelf.
She claimed that as a toddler Allen had escaped death by a phenomena of Bilo cation.
She and a neighbor had seen him in the path of an oncoming horses and carriage, and thought him trampled,
only for him to appear happy and playing elsewhere.
Her family had the second sight.
Allen believed at times that she herself was possessed.
He claimed in her sleep she spoke in a strange dead Aramaic language.
As a teenager Allen and a friend approached members of the Scottish spiritualist church about his mother.
He was fascinated by the spiritualists, and claimed he saw on of the mediums take on a spirit with the aspects of his face
change into another, as if a veil of another came across his face.
Allen did not feel any kinship with the doer fire and brimstone Presbyterian church of control and the Kirk.
He saw nothing threatening in the channelers and their healing circles.
He attended some of their meetings, with the burgeoning interest in theosophy.
The spiritualist movement had taken a foothold in Scotland after the devastating loss of World War I.
After an entire generation of young men wiped out, survivors desperately wanted to speak with the lost dead, so abruptly and senselessly gone.
While channeling was condemned as witchcraft by the Presbyterian church, it was very natural to an older druidic-slash-Seltic culture of shamanism
that still spoke in remnants of Scots and Gaelic.
Spiritualism had a renewed vigor with the New Age cults and religions like Findhorn, which Allen recognized in the Masonic New Age magazine
distributed to his uncles.
Allen loved to read Arthur Conan Doyle, a fellow Scott and great supporter of the spiritualist movement.
While he approached it all with skepticism, he believed in the reality of the two worlds.
He started to read the Kabbalah, Grimoires, Blavatsky, Manly Peahall, Jung, John D., any text that claimed to have secret knowledge.
Allen was a stargazer.
He became interested in the mystery religions, and specifically the one mystery religion that linked them all.
Texts that were published as secret knowledge for the common Freemason, like the Kaibalion, referenced the hermetic religion of Hermes Trismegistus
as the conveyor of magic, scientific and mathematical knowledge through the centuries.
It was my understanding from conversation that this religion, a template for priests of ancient Egypt, Pythagoreanism,
Platonic philosophy were the remnants, conveyance of gathered knowledge from survivors of a previous, worldwide-entered Illuvian civilization,
from before the Indian Vedas.
Myths of Atlantis, a world now under the sea, were vestiges of this.
It was a culture that left standing stones across the world.
It was a culture that shared the same astronomy, seafaring symbols, stories of animals and gods in the sky.
Allen talked about the Indus Valley Civilization, Mohenjo Darrow and Harappa and suggestions of a civilization with vitrified bricks suggesting nuclear power,
citing refences to advanced weaponry in the Vedas and the Bhagavad Gita Book of Drona.
Allen’s beliefs regarding civilization, and previous ages very much aligned with what Graham Hancock has brought to light in his extensive investigations.
Allen talked about the priests of ancient Egypt and Greece having contact and training in India, not just trade, but training.
Much later, the hierarchical system of the British Freemason and the Hindu worked well together, having originally the same origin.
Plato’s Republic was a model of the mystery-religion society, the ultimate goal, the masons and Zion’s temple, the perfected pyramid hierarchy system.
It was not just the individual soul, but the collective society’s soul.
Allen didn’t believe the New World of America was new.
He believed it was an old world, already known about, to be recovered.
Allen was very interested in Barry Fell author of America BC.
Also his association with Thor hired a son, fueled this speculation, that these lands had been accessed long ago.
Allen believed there was a vested interest by the people of one god to keep believing all civilization was derived from Mesopotamia, when it wasn’t.
Allen claimed he had witnessed poltergeist activity in one of the homes he was hosted in.
The dinner table and chairs lifting from the floor, dishes flying from the cabinets, smashing on walls.
He claimed to see ghosts, like an old VHS recording, replaying the same actions over and over, walking down halls.
He claimed to see the ghosts of soldiers fighting battles on the fields of Bannockburn and Culloden.
He had also seen what he considered demons, rogued, black things absorbing light, red-eyed and fanged.
The miners too were superstitious.
In one of the mines a fungus was found perfectly mimicking a hand, and the miners were convinced it was a dead miner’s hand supernaturally grown in the pits, after a tunnel collapse.
One of Allen’s uncles had a woman on the coast.
She and all her kin had the second sight and always knew when fishermen was lost at sea.
It made his uncle uncomfortable until they finally split.
Allen’s first sexual experience was at 13 with an Irish girl who claimed to be a witch, fumbling in the back seat of the car, on a family trip.
He claimed a poltergeist came into the home of one of his host families, with the table and chairs floating in air, and dishes flying.
When boarding at medical school, he claimed to have seen a demon, walking up the stair, through the hall, to his friend’s room.
In my own experience, Allen really did have the gift of second sight.
He saw not just deductive, logical conclusions, but deep insights into people and events, that could not be known to him.
Christians might call it demonic.
Celts called it an deshelod.
He often made me think of Burton in the Medusa touch, minus the sinister intention.
I think he would search out articles and research to prove the things he saw.
Some think of it as a gift or a blessing.
I think of Allen’s talents are more like the curse of Cassandra of Troy, seeing the future without being believed or the ability to change the outcome.
He would often have premonitions of events in his own life.
In his early twenties, Allen lived in the True Highlands, near Loch Ness and then in Verness.
He had a friend he called the poacher, whose renegade spirit he admired greatly.
The poacher carried feisty ferrets and nets in his pockets, and poached rabbits on the Lord’s land.
When caught by the gamekeeper and called to court, Barry was always defiant, refusing to pay or submit.
The poacher had drawn one of the original posters slash art for Led Zeppelin, the Zoho Hermit if memory serves.
Allen called the poacher Barry occasionally, so it must have been the reclusive Barrington Colby.
Barry was friends with Jimmy Page, and through him Allen was invited to one of Page’s famous wild parties, full of European girls, at the Alastair Crowley’s Bullskine House.
At the party, trying to find the bathroom, Allen claimed he walked in on Mick Jagger and his guitar hero, Eric Clapton in bed together, and being shocked.
Allen believed the things Crowley had conjured lingered in that ancient place.
One story that always stuck with me was Allen was up in the Highlands playing and drinking at a party.
He got into his friend’s car, the friend drunk and driving.
It was a cold night and a winding road.
His friend collided into a convertible of young people, three if I remember correctly.
Everyone but Allen died in the crash.
Allen was relatively unscathed.
He got out and walked from maimed body to body, no pulse, no life.
Silence.
Allen had been trained not to remain calm, not get emotional as a doctor, but I can’t imagine.
Allen loved the Highlands, Inverness and Loch Ness.
Allen had befriended a lord who let him live greatest in one of his estate cottages on his estate, where Allen wrote on songs.
The cottage had thick, thick stone walls.
He would go hiking and exploring in the Grampians, finding cairns, ruins and standing stones.
He would often talk about the clave of cairns, and believed an ancient people, an antediluvian civilization had peopled the world,
and that our history was written by a people determined to make the region of their one true God as the false source of all things.
He loved the old thatched-roofed crops from a bygone century.
Allen described once climbing down a cliffside of Loch Ness and finding a monk’s cell carved into the cliff.
It was a magical.
He wondered if he was the first person who’d been there since the monk.
He never saw the Loch Ness monster, like Saint Columba, but he always wanted to believe such things were in the realm of existence.
A police chief he knew swore he’d seen the monster looming, but he was also a man known to have more than a nip of whiskey.
Allen also visited the Findhorn Utopian community while living in the Highlands.
He recalled the pretty girls and their simple trust, the giant vegetables, and the belief in a new society.
It spurred his later interest in kibbutz, the oneedia community, and other communes as an outgrowth of older religions, of Nostism, the Boga Mills and the Cathars.
Allen would talk of Thomas More and his Utopia, Francis Bacon’s New Utopia.
And the great experiment of democracy in America, thesis.
The other great experiment was Communism in the Soviet Union, antithesis.
The synthesis was China, a mixture of both, which would eventually be the UN’s New World Order government.
The world planners and the new society didn’t need most of us, which is where eugenics came in.
Those who had obtained wealth and were part of the elite, the successful genes, like in Huxley’s Brave New World would remain.
The wheat.
The shaft, the rest of us, would be gently genocide, in the most humane possible way.
The great violent genocides of WWI, World War II, a century of war, and the communist cleansings just hadn’t done the job.
People would be taught to embrace their own selfishness, forever children at play, shala, la-la-la-la, live for today, and don’t worry about tomorrow, hey, hey, hey, hey.
Aborting their offspring, a sacrifice to Moloch.
They would embrace what had once been known as evil as freedom infertility through vaccines and diet, GMO foods that would modify the genes of those who ingested it.
Bertrand Russell’s this utopian society come to fruition was the great work the Solomon’s Temple that free masonry, Communism, with Zionism at its pinnacle as the all-seeing eye were working to build.
Allen thought this was an attempt to institute a system, the hierarchical Beehive system.
It would be just to do away with the masses, degenerate and evil as Sodom and Gomorrah.
Allen thought the book The White Cutter by David Pownell was a good allegory for the way European civilization was organized and run, experiments on systems for society.
These little utopian communities were funded and watched by the society’s owners and experts.
Allen did not subscribe to the American brand of Christianity and was very much a Gnostic Christian.
It made him a suspicious character for the Bible-beaters of Christian radio.
He believed in the demiurge, and that the world was inherently flawed and evil.
He sought SPRI ritual knowledge or gnosis to obtain he did not want children.
That’s one mistake I didn’t make.
He was interested in the film The Sin Eater.
While Allen was on air critical of New Age religions, while he didn’t participate, he did mix in those circles.
In the Toronto area Allen had a male friend who owned a video store who was a Wiccan warlock.
The warlock was an investigator into conspiratorial histories as well.
Allen attended his Wiccan wedding.
The warlock was a heavy-set man.
He had a witches circle of eight around him, who he and his witch-wife both coupled with.
Allen said the witch-wife eventually poisoned the warlock.
I guess that’s one of a witch’s garden talents.
Canada
Allen wanted out of Britain.
He admitted when he proposed marriage proposal to his future wife part of the motivation was Canadian citizenship.
She was beautiful, with a beautiful body, but he had not respect for her intellect.
He used to tell the story that he picked up a replica Rolex for her in a Toronto market.
She had it appraised the next day, and was angry when it wasn’t the real McCoy.
The two did not have children.
Allen always said that was one mistake he never made.
Allen used to sit at a corner café in Toronto and meet a Jamaican musician for coffee.
It was a busy intersection and he would watch the wrecks.
They would chat about local music and life.
Allen was not part of the Canadian Musicians Union.
Allen didn’t really like the size and business of Toronto.
He didn’t speak much about it.
I remember him talking about being at the dinner table with his wife’s family.
Allen’s mother-in-law used to meet once a year with a former lover with her husband’s approval.
His newly graduated sister-in-law had just travelled Europe and had trysts with strangers which Allen condemned.
His father-in-law had a high-ranking position with a Canadian bank.
He was not happy with the union.
Allen and his wife had a condo in Toronto. One of their neighbours died, a widower, and nobody noticed for weeks. Allen was asked to climb in through an upstairs window to check on him.
He did and found him dead inside. Allen discovered that his wife had been unfaithful, after a night out with her girlfriends. Unwilling or unable to forgive her, he came back to an empty condo.
She also emptied his bank accounts when she disappeared. He said her name was not on the account, and she shouldn’t have had access. The account was with the father-in-law’s bank, and she did. He said, she beat me to the punch.
He waited it out for his citizenship to be legal. Allen had what I would call beyond bad luck with vehicles. He painstakingly restored a muscle car, everything, the engine, brakes, new paint job.
He was going to take it on its first official drive to pick up a date. Driving it out, down the road, a realtor who had just received a call for a showing,plowed straight into it from an alley, total wreck.
Allen for a time had an interest in carpentry.
He loved the feel of wood and working with his hands.
In Ontario he studied carpentry at a polytechnic school.
He worked for a master carpenter cabinet maker as part of his apprenticeship.
He would also craft and sell replicated chip and ale furniture.
To complete the hours for his apprenticeship towards Red Seal Master Carpenter requirements,
he worked at a wood factory that manufactured outdoor furniture.
Allen disliked the place, with the stench of cancer causing chemical finishes and preservatives.
Giant extractor fans and machinery ran with constant noise.
A married woman, the factory mattress came on to him, and he turned her down flat.
Her vanity wounded, she reported him to a supervisor as smelling bad from sweating in the hot shop.
The supervisor called Allen into his office, with the smirk and handed him a stick of deodorant.
A furious Allen, restraining himself from decking the guy, stated he wasn’t putting cancer causing aluminum under his arms and walked out.
I don’t know if he finished his master carpenter journeyman path.
I do think exposure to all the toxic chemical finish fumes did damage further damage the heavy smokers lungs.
After leaving Toronto, Allen moved north, I think outside of Berry, in a small rural community.
At first he rented in town, but eventually he lived in an old farmhouse that was owned by a wealthy businessman.
He did handyman work and sold furniture he had made by the roadside.
He was a caretaker on the property, fixing things.
He claimed the place was haunted, that he would see a woman walking the upstairs corridor straight through, no facial features, turn of the century hair and dress.
She repeated the same acts like an echo, unaware of his presence.
Nothing menacing.
There was a henhouse in the barn.
I remember Allen the raccoons breaking in and devastating the hens, maiming and murdering.
A fox would take what he would eat.
The raccoons at the eggs and killed the chickens for pleasure.
Car troubles continued at the farmhouse.
Behind the farmhouse, the property owner grew Christmas trees to be harvested.
A tractor trailer pulled up, and having the entire lot to park in, backed up and pulverized Allen’s car, another restoration vehicle.
After this insult to injury, he bought and rehabilitated his old pickup truck.
He seemed to really enjoy his stay there for a time.
He worked with stained glass.
He made friends with an older local oddball, picking metal parts at the local dump, a jack of all trades, the beekeeper.
The beekeeper did a bit of everything.
He ran the dump, he did auto work, he built, he was the local dog catcher, and he kept beehives.
The beekeeper was a hoarder.
He had barns and huts full of all sorts of interesting parts and pieces, pre-war mechanical, everything imaginable, presumably fished out of the dump.
When the beekeeper who was a renter, had to move it was a hell of a thing.
The beekeeper told Allen all about the queen bees and the nature of the hives.
The queen bee would kill her rivals.
When the old queen became old or weak, the workers raised a new queen, the victorious female would kill her sister slash rivals.
Allen often talked about how in Masonic symbology, the beehive reflected the perfect hierarchal society.
The queen was the ruler or monarch.
The drones, males, were the elite class slash nobility.
They did not work.
Their role was to contribute the good genes, to mate with the queen.
The guard bees, drawn from the worker bee class were the police slash military, who protected the hive and maintained order.
The worker bees, working class, performed all the tasks and could not reproduce, living to serve their betters.
Anyhow, Allen got fresh delicious honey from his friend.
While a friend, Allen considered him a bit psychopathic in that he killed dogs as animal control without the least hesitation.
Once, when Allen went to visit in the beekeeper’s house, he was shocked to see a giant closet packed with extreme, bizarre VHS porn videos.
Eventually the beekeeper, who inherited his father’s estate took up with a pretty young thing, a big tit blonde, straight out of the videos, who he married.
Presumably the agreement was everything would be hers soon.
Allen had another friend who was a charming natural con man, a young Ojibwe Indian who knew every welfare benefit in the book by heart.
He could recite like a lawyer what the government owed him.
He was a bit of a womanizer.
Allen seemed to enjoy his moxie.
The friend Allen mentioned the most, who visited him occasionally when he uprooted to Estair was Brian.