Let me set the scene. Me and Angel man. A carpenter who looked like Jesus. A pianist, blonde, many rings, she played the Michael Nyman tune from The Piano almost constantly. A man of the woods and his Wiccan wife and her daughter. An ex-trucker turned megalithic giant. A soft-spoken road protester who’d lived up a tree. A long thin angular bean pole with glasses. An old man and white-haired woman, both of them rounded like the bender they built in the wood. These were the first members of the commune. God did people go on about how great communal living would be. That’s why we did it. That’s why when I looked out on the land I said well let’s find out then shall we. A pound a week, everyone welcome, an open-door policy, communal use of the washing machine and bathrooms, you could pitch up and pitch anywhere, the house soon full, tipis, benders, yurts sprang to life in the woods and fields. Converted horse boxes found flat ground outside the old metal barn down the drive where a mechanic had been turfed out. A member of the firm behind all this, my father’s estate, had arrived looking worried in a suit, clearly instructed to do my bidding, no questions asked, and he did; we wanted the barn for ourselves. It was big enough for workshops and later a stage and trapeze. The road protester moved his coffin onto a shelf in the office. The megalithic giant announced the HQ for Shamanic Studies. The Jesus carpenter hammered and plane-sawed and got dust in his beard. A didgeridoo maker portioned off another corner, soon discovering that Giant Hogweed was no replacement for eucalyptus. Meetings once a week, mandatory, a talking stick passing from hand to hand around the kitchen table. A lot of tea. A lot of spliff. In the first month we sent out a call for extra help, gave everyone a sapling and an ecstasy. We planted two thousand trees that day. Word spread, the commune grew and this wasn’t the wildness of Dartmoor or some remote hilltop in the highlands where no one could see, it was Surrey, the Home Counties, not two hours from London where careful women clipped their roses and nervous men played golf.
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Talking sticks N O nonononononono I never could obey that thing 😂🤣
I am so into the idea of a commune, even if it is cult like. It sounds idyllic. But then all the people and I just can't... Unless I'm the charismatic cult leader, then it would be fine.