Part One

It's amazing how rapidly an apparently stable and solid organisation or institution can turn to dust, once the conditions arise. Like an incumbent in Downing Street. For five long years they hit the headlines on a daily basis, instilling fear, hatred, conflict, and paranoia into the masses. Then, one day, a bad election result - and they're gone. Everything seemed so fixed, so obdurate, established. Now, a few photos of a dejected has-been slouching off after dark in the direction of some obscure constituency, that's all that's left. It's as if it was all a dream, as if nothing ever really happened at all.

Following our return to Polstead Road, North Oxford, we convene a summit meeting in the living room. Significantly, each of us leans with his back against the wall in a different part of the room. There is distance now, and our previous intimacy is inappropriate. All feel, for their own different reasons, that it's time to wind up proceedings. Dave will continue with Social Services for the time being, while Mottie does what he didn't do a couple of years ago, and apply to university. Liberty - nobody really knows. And I'm off to do the Buddhist spiritual thing.

Apportioning our funds is a straightforward and uncontroversial procedure, since precise records have been kept of contributions since day one. Dave gets the biggest slice of the communal pie, with me running a close second. Mottie doesn't do badly, while Liberty gets enough for the train fare home.

Practical matters unravel remarkably quickly, and I can't quite keep up. The entire affair takes place in a slightly frantic yet matter-of-fact way. There is no big farewell party, not even a goodbye picnic on Port Meadow. I see no tears as we head our different ways. 

I resign my position as counterculture postman extraordinaire. There's no point in continuing. However, my final Saturday morning at the Oxford sorting office becomes an unexpectedly emotional affair, as many of the post office old-timers line up to wish me well. "Goodbye, Ginge. Good luck." It seems that my hard work and general cheerfulness have been appreciated. Bizarrely, there appears to be more feeling as I walk away from the sorting office than expresses itself in the disbanding of the commune.

I am desperate for a place to stay. Paul Red Eyes can offer me a room in a house just off Iffley Road - for a week. I shift all my belongings into this one small room, and sleep on a little bed amidst a stack of crates and boxes. It is not a good week: ejected by personal choice from the communal dream, I am like a strand of flotsam drifting here and there, aimlessly, on the surface of a vast ocean. 

Part Two

The pace of change means that I am far from having the mental space to consider more precisely what had gone wrong, or how things might have been different, or what we could have tried to change things round. It is only after the dust has settled, and years further down the line, that I am able to look more clearly at the elements which led to our pushing the communal self-destruct button.

For one thing, we were far too insular. We failed to see the need for continued interaction with others who were engaged in similar projects; an interaction which would have fed in fresh ideas and perspectives, and shed light on the difficulties that we were starting to encounter. We laboured instead under the delusion that we, and we alone, had it all sorted; we were the shit-hot dudes, and everybody else was simply confused and playing catch-up. Big mistake.

Related to this was the way that we took ourselves too seriously, or at least were serious about ourselves in the wrong way. No holidays together, no free festivals in far-flung places, no rock concerts, no social events beyond French Phil's parties. Nope. Another error of considerable proportions.

We also failed miserably to explore our different visions, doubts, differences, and difficulties. Liberty hadn't earned a penny in over a year. What was that about? Dave and I were not in the same boat in many respects: was there a way that our differences could be accommodated constructively? Mottie was hitting brick walls in every direction, leading him to dream of 'higher education' once again. Was anyone available to lend him a hand?

While we did not pretend these obstacles were not there, we did not deal with them. I guess that we lacked the skill base to tackle the psychological dynamics necessary. But once again, help might have been available, if only we humbled ourselves to look beyond our own four castle walls. As it was, frictions were left insufficiently attended, when they could wreak havoc and do their own destructive thing.

Meanwhile, back in the here and now.....

Part Three

We have left North Oxford, but it remains for the keys to be returned to former landlady D. Since nobody else is on talking terms with her any longer, I am volunteered for the job.One sunny spring afternoon I cycle up Polstead Road for the handover. I feel vaguely optimistic, and am looking forward to seeing her. OK, things didn't work out perfectly, but she gave us accommodation. I want to say 'thank you' and to wish her well for the future. 

I lock up my bike outside, then knock on the front door. D opens up slowly, emerging into the light looking more gaunt and world-weary than ever. She averts her gaze, refusing to look at me. When she does finally speak, it is in a high-pitched, strained and constipated slur. "The flat is a terrible mess. I can't believe the state you've left it in."

Having said her piece, this wraith of a woman takes me on a long drawn-out tour of the commune's former happy hunting ground. OK. There are a few bits of wallpaper torn off where Mottie has taken down his posters, and one or two nails for picture hooks in the wall that weren't there before. But we have been in continual occupation for nearly two years; and the flat wasn't exactly sparkling when we moved in.

Drifting ghost-like into the kitchen, D opens a cupboard. "Look at that. Breadcrumbs everywhere. I don't know how you could do this to me." I stand silent; what else can I do? My sympathy touches zero. Haven't you heard of a dustpan and brush? Five minutes and the job's a good 'un.

"You can go now" she utters finally, in a tone of weary resignation. Whether or not she actually says the words 'I don't want to see your face ever again' remains immaterial. The message is clear.

I cycle back to my cubby-hole off Iffley Road in a state of bemusement more than anything. None of us considered for a moment that we were less than near-perfect tenants. We paid our rent on time - always - and didn't trash the place with drunken parties. We assumed that we had vacated the flat in tip-top condition. Were we really that filthy a bunch of unwashed hippies?

Returning to my short-term refuge, I survey the clutter of old boxes, books, and gramophone records that constitute my material existence. Three more days and I'll be out of here. And to what? Homeless, rudderless, companionless. Things can't get worse than this. Can They?       

Images: Tarot card, the Tower. Rider-Waite Tarot, Royo Dark Tarot