second-wave cohousing a modern utopia

8/16/2019 Second-Wave Cohousing a Modern Utopia

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Strange Places: Estrangement, Utopianism and Intentional Communities

Lucy Sargisson

[email protected]

Associate Professor

School of Politics and International Relations

University of Nottingham

University Park

Nottingham

NG11 OAX

UK

A version of this paper was published in Utopian Studies , 18(3), 393-424.


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Abstract

In this paper I examine the role of estrangement in utopianism by drawing on the experiences

of intentional communities. Specialists have long established that estrangement is a

fundamental aspect of utopian fiction and this paper expands the debate into the empirical

world of utopian experiments. Focussing on the experiences of intentional communities, I

seek to understand the import and impact of estrangement in a utopian context. The

experiences of these groups suggest that the relationship between estrangement and

utopianism is deeply paradoxical.


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Introduction

In this paper I seek to examine the paradoxical role of estrangement in utopianism, drawing

on the experiences of intentional communitiesi. Scholars of fictional utopias, following (or

contesting) Darko Suvinii have firmly established that estrangement is fundamental to

utopianism, permitting critical distance and facilitating paradigm shifts, provoking a key

utopian function: fresh perceptions of the limits of the possible. My research indicates that

estrangement performs similar functions inside intentional communities, facilitating critical

distance and group coherence. As such, it seems that estrangement has a profoundly positive

relationship with utopianism. Distanced, remote and strange, utopias variously interrogate the

now from an imaginary good-place and estrangement permits this. However, estranged

relationships are complex and difficult and a discussion of estrangement also requires

contemplation of the ways that we regard and treat the Other: the strange and unknown

outsider. This aspect of estrangement takes us into dark places and people who try to realise

utopian dreams in intentional communities often find the various effects of estrangement

impossible to endure. Drawing on theoretical debates and first-hand fieldwork, I will suggest

that estrangement lies at the heart of utopian experiments. It is necessary and yet variously

unendurable.

I should note at the outset some potentially controversial points of method. Firstly, with due

respect to scholars who define utopia purely in literary terms, I make no apologies for treating

intentional communities as utopian experiments. They may not be fully realised eutopias and

they are in many ways different from literary utopias. They are nonetheless utopian in many

respects, often eutopic in intent and they represent utopias in process: spaces in which the

good life is explored and pursued. Secondly, the paper assumes a two-way relationship


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between practice and theory and I seek to connect theories of utopian estrangement with

observations drawn from empirical research inside intentional communities. For this reason,

theoretical and empirical discussions intertwine throughout much of the piece, informing and

illuminating each other. In order to keep the text uncluttered, references to wider scholarship

are confined mostly to the footnotes. Finally, I make a number of empirical claims and

generalisations in this paper. These are drawn from first-hand observation and fieldwork

inside over fifty intentional communities in two countries (Britain and New Zealand) iii.

Discussions are based on the premises that whilst every community is unique, cross-national

and -typological commonalities occur.

Discussion is structured around three key questions: Why is estrangement important to

utopianism? Why is the relationship between estrangement and utopianism paradoxical? Can

this paradox be negotiated? I thus open with a brief exegesis on the various roles of

estrangement in utopian fiction, theory and intentional communities, before moving on to

focus on lessons offered by concrete experiences of estrangement in intentional communities.

Discussion concludes with some broader theoretical reflections.

Why is estrangement important?

i) Utopianism

The word ‘estrangement’ contains a number of cognate terms related to distance and

difference. The modern word ‘estrangement’ combines the old French ‘estranger’

(modern equivalent: étranger ) and the Latin extraneare. Etymologically, then,

estrangement evokes the stranger and the extraneous, the unknown and the outside.

Colloquially, the term evokes loss, sadness, regret and/or pain: an affective door

closes as we become estranged from one another. Conceptually, estrangement is

complex, evoking normative, ideological, social and affective distance. For Marxist

theorists it is firmly connected to alienationiv

. Within utopian studies it is used


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both/either according to the very particular definition established by Darko Suvin,

and/or in more a more general (but nonetheless specialist) sense which conveys

something important about the nature of utopia. All of these different ways of

thinking about estrangement are pertinent to the discussion in hand.

Estrangement variously contributes to the ambivalent heart of utopianism. It plays a

structuring role and a normative one, permitting utopias to function criticallyv. At a

most fundamental level, utopias require a certain estrangement in order to function.

Fictional utopias, for example, are intentionally and necessarily distanced from the

now. They are set apart in space or time in a ‘no-place’ from whence they offer

radical normative critique and visions of a better world. Thus:

The classical utopia anticipates and criticises. Its alternative fundamentally

interrogates the present, piercing through existing societies’ defensive mechanism –

common sense realism, positivism, and scientism. Its unabashed and flagrant otherness

gives it a power which is lacking in other analytical devices. By playing fast and loose

with time and space, logic and morality, and by thinking the unthinkable, a utopia asks

the most awkward, most embarrassing questionsvi.

This is estrangement. From its no-place, utopia tells a story, breaking rules that constrain the

present, thinking the unthinkable and (as Tom Moylan has it) demanding the impossiblevii.

Utopias are thus set apart from ‘reality’ and utopian visions are powerful because they are

estranged. Estrangement pertains to the ‘ou’ of utopia.

For some scholars estrangement exists as a core but implicit element of analysis.

Others pursue it more directly. Darko Suvin’s early work on literary form established

estrangement as a fundamental constituent of both science fiction and utopiaviii

. In a


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women’s exclusion, silence, and lack of positive value in patriarchal systems of representation

resonates with the utopian method and the normative and conceptual distance of utopias

makes them good-places in which to explore our dreams. In all of these various discussions

within the field of utopian studies, estrangement has a broadly positive and definitely

important role. It permits critical distance, reflection and new perspectives. It facilitates the

articulation of repressed or marginal voices. And it works by creating distant spaces from

whence to interrogate the now.

ii) Intentional Communities

Intentional communities are strange places, full of dreams, hopes and disappointments as

groups of individuals work collectively to realise a better life. In order to pursue their vision

of the good life, these groups require space in which to experiment, individual security and

group coherence. Estrangement can facilitate these things.


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Intentional communities need to provide a space inside which members can explore the good

life. This often involves deep experimentation with the self as members seek self-

improvement, -development and/or -transformation in a search for a different ontological

relationship with the world. For example, members may seek a better (more authentic,

genuine or transparent) way of relating to other people, or they may desire to be closer to the

divine, spirit or nature. These are deeply-held desires which inform a range of very different

practices. For example, in community visits I have worked alongside people using divining

rods to design a garden having asked nature-spirits for guidance, or visualising planting

patterns in meditation, or planting, sowing and harvesting in tune with phases of the moon.

Similarly, people weed their garden whilst praying or addressing the plants, apologising, or

explaining what is happening and why. The latter often occurs in New Age communities or in

groups that seek to recover ancient nature-based spiritual traditions. Others work with

‘biodynamic’ techniques, which seek to harmonise the spiritual energy of plants, land and

humans. These are everyday examples of practices that seek to build a closer ontological

relationship between humanity and nature. The same paradigm informs communities where

experimental sexual relationships, polygamy, or poly-love are practised. A key component in

all of these very different practices is ‘openness’. For example, deep ecologists speak in terms

of ‘total field images’xvi or ‘transpersonal theories of self’xvii, the subtext of which is a request

that followers of deep ecology ‘open’ themselves to the natural world. Practitioners and

theorists of polylove speak in terms of openness to the Other, or to desire. All of these render

members vulnerable and the intentional community needs to be a space in which members

feel able to explore utopian practices. This requires physical estrangement, in which distance

or separation from the local community permits members to concentrate on their self-

appointed task, insulated from external interruption, interference, and criticism. These are

prerequisites for sustainable experiments with the self.


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A case in point is the Findhorn Foundation in Scotland. The Foundation has an important

legacy: it is the largest intentional community in Britain and has inspired community founders

worldwide. The Findhorn Foundation is an umbrella organisation under whose rubric falls a

raft of businesses, charitable organisations and groups as well as two intentional communities.

One inhabits two sites near the town of Findhorn in Morayshire. The other is on the Scottish

west coast island of Erraid. The Foundation is primarily a non-denominational spiritual

organisation which (historically) has followed the guidance of one of its founders, Eileen

Caddy and her ‘channelled’ messages from Godxviii. It has pioneered experiments with the

self. In particular, members are encouraged to cast aside defensive behavioural patterns and to

`open’ themselves, spiritually and socially to ‘God’, ‘divinity’, or ‘spirit’. This, it is believed,

can be manifested in the self through `attunement’ and ‘unconditional love’xix. These

processes can render people profoundly vulnerable. In such cases the community needs to

insulate its members from the external gaze. To go out into the wider community whilst in the

middle of the induction programme (Experience Week), for example, is inappropriately

exposing. Participants are ‘wide open’ in a condition of what is variously interpreted as

emotional, spiritual and psychic receptiveness. It is not helpful to encounter the wider world

whilst in this condition. People often recall the transition between inside and outside such

communities as traumatic. Deep experimentation with the self requires a safe haven.

One of the most enduring challenges for intentional communities is the need to balance the

competing needs of individuals and the group. This includes the utopian aspects of the group,

such as the shared vision and associated practices, and sociological phenomena of group

dynamics. A related challenge is the need to strike a balance between collective self-nurture

and outreach. Often, crises involving these tensions are triggered by a call for change.

Key studies like Rosabeth Kanter’s Community and Commitment have established that


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intentional communities require group cohesion in order to pursue a collective visionxx.

Estrangement can facilitate this. If a group exists in a protected space its members can more

easily focus on their collective vision and internal dynamics. However, intentional

communities also need to be dynamic, and to evolve, adapt and change. Strangely perhaps,

estrangement can also facilitate this. The tension between cohesion and stagnation presents a

persistent challenge to all intentional communities, causing crisis and conflict. In order to

negotiate and resolve problems, the community needs to represent a space into which the

members can retreat and inside which they can reflect, debate and negotiate the challenge.

This emerged as a recurring theme in fieldwork across New Zealand and the UK. For

example, members of two long-lived communities in the New Zealand city of Christchurch

recall periods of significant tension during which the group needed to retreat from the wider

community. These are the Community of the Sacred Name and Chippenham Community. The

Community of the Sacred Name is an Anglican convent, with an all-female membership and

Chippenham Community is a mixed secular commune. The former is located in a deprived

district of the inner city, where it was founded in 1893 with the aim of supporting the ‘fallen’

women of the city. Chippenham Community lies on the other side of the city, in a now-

affluent suburb, where it was founded in 1971 by a group committed to environmentalist,

gender and socialist politicsxxi. For decades, Sisters at the Sacred Name engaged in missionary

work as well as offering medical and social support to Christchurch’s prostitutes. And

Chippenham’s founders published underground magazines, ran protests, were involved in an

alternative school, and hosted New Zealand’s first branch of Greenpeacexxii.

For these two very different groups, and indeed for all intentional communities, the

community is a physical space inside which members collaborate on their collective vision,

mission and associated practices. It is the space inside which and from whence they pursue a


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good life. It is also a living community in which relationships grow and change and conflicts

occur. When I visited in 2001, both communities were introspective. Collective activities

outside the group had ceased. The Community of the Sacred Name faced an extended period

of diminishing numbers and was considering its future. The Mother Superior explained that

this is a common challenge for Anglican convents produced by a combination of declining

religiosity and the ordination of women into the Anglican Church. Members were asking

themselves, is the community viable? Should we relocate? Can we afford to maintain this

property? Should we continue to occupy such a large building? Should we move to a smaller

building? Might we merge with another community? At the same time, members of

Chippenham Community were recovering from a long period of internal conflict about the

future of the community and its assets. A clash had occurred and escalated within the group in

the 1990s. One faction claimed the community had strayed from its original intent. (A

paragraph in the community constitution committed the group to supporting the poor of the

city of Christchurchxxiii.) The original mortgage had almost been repaid and the community

was now relatively wealthy. This faction wanted to sell the property and use the assets to

support good works. The other faction opposed this, arguing that with the secure asset they

were free to help others. The dispute grew to encompass core values as well as constitutional

interpretation and proved costly in emotional and financial terms. Some members left.

Mediation failed and the case went to court. Legal costs were considerable and the community

is no longer affluent. By 2004 the group was regaining coherence and becoming active once

more in the wider community. There is much to learn from this case (not least about conflict

resolutionxxiv). For present purposes, it is instructive to note that they hastily accepted new

members in the middle of a crisis period. These people did not share the collective ethos,

behaved inappropriately and had to be ejected. This further complicated an already difficult

situation. The group had retreated into its own space in order to negotiate serious internal


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conflict: when this was almost resolved, it invited disruptive elements into that space. This

was a bad mistake.

These are quite extreme examples and both involve threats to the survival of the group. Such

experiences occur in most long-lived groups and intentional communities rarely retain the

exact vision of their founders across more than one decade. Rather, they shift and change over

time. Sometimes this is a consequence of protracted internal debate, sometimes it is triggered

by new members, and sometimes experience indicates that the original desire (non-possessive

polygamous relationships, a money-free economy, parenting teenagers without television)

was unclear or unrealisable. In all such cases, the community will need, at some point, to

retreat into itself to negotiate these changes and challenges.

Sometimes, then, an intentional community represents a space which offers people the

security to pursue their utopian vision and explore utopian practices. It is also a space from

whence the group acts collectively, reaching outwards to impact on the wider community.

And sometimes it is a space into which the group needs to retreat - to negotiate conflict and

challenges that threaten their community’s survival. All of this requires some level of spatial

estrangement. This permits intentional communities to pursue a normative agenda, generate a

collective identity and cohesive group, nurture a shared vision, and follow a path to the good

life. However, it also yields problems.

Why is estrangement paradoxical?

I noted above that the word estrangement etymologically combines ‘estranger’ and

‘extraneare’ , the stranger and the extraneous: the unknown and the outside, and I

have discussed some of the potentially liberating and insulating aspects of intentional

estrangement, suggesting that this is necessary to utopian communal projects.


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However, my research also indicates that it presents deep challenges: it is both

necessary and difficult and some find it impossible to endure. The root of this

ambivalence lies in the nature of estrangement. It is difficult always to be outside,

different and strange, and estrangement involves the loss of affective relationships. In

colloquial terms, ‘estranged’ relationships evoke a sense of loss and deterioration. The

estranged partner, child or parent, once-familiar and trusted, is now distant, removed,

and remote. They have become ‘a stranger’ to us. Similarly, the stranger, conceptually

cast as Other, is the unknown and feared outsider who belongs outside the boundaries

of the familiar: ‘our’ community, country, place or culture. Estrangement may be

necessary then, but it is extremely uncomfortable to endure. It is necessary for group

survival but life in a perpetually estranged space can be difficult. I propose to examine

two core aspects of this: the first concerns the physical separation, which is both

necessary and difficult, and the second concerns the deeper and more problematic

effects of alienation.

Paradoxes of estrangement

Urban communities struggle to achieve and maintain separation from their local communities.

Rural groups have it in abundance. This is double-edged. Rural communes are perhaps the

most estranged form of intentional community in physical terms and this was often part of

their founders’ intent. These people sought to live the good life, far from the interfering gaze

of wider society. Visits to rural communities quickly reveal the challenges of physical

estrangement, which are material and practical. It is, quite simply, very difficult to live in a

physically estranged space. The everyday challenges of estrangement may seem banal but

they can have profound outcomes. Too much physical estrangement can mean that life in an

intentional community is materially unsustainable. And too much affective estrangement can


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contribute to corrupt internal power relations, collective alienation, and a slide from eutopic

intent to dystopic outcome.

i) physical estrangement

The rural communes of the 1970s were set apart from society in remote locations: founders

purchased or leased mountaintops, hillsides, or swathes of forest or bush often considered

unviable for conventional farmingxxv. Community founders recall the physical hardships of

the early days as they cut paths into the forest or bush with machetes, felled trees and built

bridges by hand, often without good tools or skills. Dozens of these communities were

founded in Britain and New Zealand. The utopian visions pursued by many of these groups

were anti-materialist and often involved a life ‘closer to nature’, with a deeper spiritual

connection to place. Members explored their dreams of the good life in these spaces,

developing and exploring spiritual practices, practical ecology and/or alternative social

relationships. Members recall a sense of freedom, awe, and spiritual awakening as an

important part of their early experiencesxxvi. Many established close relationships with the

land and cherished their experience of physical isolation. The positive, liberating and enabling

effects of estrangement in a utopian project can be clearly observed in such accounts.

However, this form of estrangement has a high price. Members found a place in which they

were free to live as they wished with like-minded people, far away from the gaze of the world

‘outside’. They also found themselves isolated, lonely and conflict-riddenxxvii. Life was

physically tough, financially challenging and social relationships (always intense in

intentional communities) were placed under additional strainxxviii. Some of these communities

survive but many do notxxix. Some members lived in tents or temporary huts for years while

they struggled to build houses. They lived miles from schools and hospitals and these

communes are often difficult to access by car. Visits involve long walks along tracks through


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the bush, fording streams that in the wet season become impassable torrents. Women recall

childbirth by candlelight, without professional medical support, electricity or hot water.

Children speak of long treks to school, where they were often ridiculed or bullied. Teenagers

recall tedium. In some cases, members decided that the dream was not worth the sacrifice. In

addition to harsh living conditions and strained relationships, many groups found that their

project was financially unviable. These groups had an abundance of estrangement and many

hoped to live independently of wider society, in a new space where the old rules and

conventions did not apply and new ones built a better world in microcosm. All of the positive

and liberating aspects of estrangement can be found in these places. However, those that

survive have endured considerable material and emotional hardship.

ii) affective estrangement and collective alienation

Some aspects of estrangement are more profound. These have a deep and insidious by-

product which I term ‘collective alienation’. This stems from the Otherness of intentional

communities and concerns the power relations within and beyond the group. Estrangement

can trigger a process which runs like this: in the face of a (real or perceived) hostile gaze, the

community becomes increasingly introverted. Normative estrangement becomes extreme, the

founding vision becomes intensified or radicalised and the collective sense of Otherness

increases. This can be both unhealthy and dangerous and in these instances estrangement has

profoundly negative outcomes.

My research indicates that this works at two levels, which are interrelated. The first concerns

relationships across the boundary, between intentional community and wider community and

the second concerns relationships inside the boundary, within the intentional community.

Regarding relationships across the boundary: a lack of interaction between intentional and

wider communities generates mutual ignorance and suspicion. The religious community of

Gloriavale, in New Zealand, is a group that has closed off most contact with the wider


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community (beyond local trading links). This group appears to believe that the wider

population live in a state of lax morals, loose sexual behaviour, and unGodlinessxxx. In turn it

is viewed with suspicion by large sections of the New Zealand population and the national

press variously depicts it as a religious cult (which it is), a free love group (which it is not),

and a sexual cult (for which there is no conclusive evidence). External perceptions become

increasingly based on imagined fantasies about life inside the walls. Within these groups, the

outcomes are double-edged. Firstly, the situation contributes to a strong sense of solidarity

(formed against a strong external Other). Ignorance and fear about ‘life outside’ generate a

strong group bond which enhances coherence and strengthens the shared visionxxxi. This can

make a group very strong. Secondly, it renders members vulnerable to manipulation.

Ignorance feeds existing alienation from the mainstream, enhancing fears and beliefs about

values and behaviour in the wider society, and skilful leaders can exploit this.

Any group that feels besieged or beleaguered can become defensive and increasingly hostile

towards its critics. This effects relationships within the group. Internal discipline and dogma

intensify under such circumstances and people (members and non-members) who challenge

the belief-system or leader come to be seen as enemies. Robert Lifton’s classic studies would

include these as core features of `ideological totalism’, which in turn is a key element in what

he terms (in the vocabulary of his time) ‘cult brainwashing’xxxii. Studies from the field of

social psychology suggest that these processes of social isolation can occur in any group. For

example, in a classic study of risk in 1961, Stoner established that people will make ‘riskier ’

decisions in a group than they will alonexxxiii. This has become known as the ‘shift to risk ’ and

later studies have shown a parallel tendency to ‘shift to extremity’, in which collective

decisions become increasingly radicalxxxiv. If this applies to all communities, it is likely to

have a particularly significant impact in intentional communities. Members have huge

investment in their membership, having sacrificed relationships, possessions, career paths and


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employment opportunities as part of their decision to join the group. They are intentionally

estranged from the opportunities and (sometimes) relationships of their previous existence.

Studies suggest that group polarization is most likely to occur when participants’ sense of

identity is bound up in their membership of that groupxxxv. For example, this description of

Wetherall’s 1987 study claims that normative estrangement contributes to group cohesion:

[W]hat is happening when a group polarizes is that the group members are attempting

to conform more closely to the normative position that they see as prototypical for

their group. When the situation makes their in-group identity more important … then

the relevant in-group norms are likely to become more extreme so as to be more

clearly differentiated from the out-group norms….xxxvi

My research suggests that intentional communities are particularly vulnerable to these

processes. None of the studies mentioned above focus on intentional communities or indeed

on any ‘real’, lived communities – all were conducted under laboratory conditions - and the

transferability of their findings must remain open to question. However, their findings do have

resonance with my own observations of intentional communities across New Zealand and

Britain. If all groups show a tendency to shift towards risk and extremity when they make

collective decisions, and if self-identification with the group further radicalizes members, then

we can understand how these groups might be particularly vulnerable to extremism and

polarization. Intentional communities are groups of individuals drawn together by a shared

sense of dissatisfaction with wider society, engaged in creating alternative (and they believe

better) ways of living. Members strongly identify with the group and its mission. In some

cases, this mission shifts to extremity. In the countries under discussion the history of

intentional communities has been largely peaceable and none have shifted to violent extremes

such as mass suicides or shootings. However, some groups have had secret caches of arms (an

example is the Lamb of God Community, New Zealand, who were stockpiling for


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Armageddon), and others have developed degenerate internal power relations. An example of

the latter is Centrepoint Community, which exhibited some of these characteristics towards

the end of its life.

Founded in the 1970s, Centrepoint was closed by the courts in 2000. For many years, it was

one of the most successful communities in New Zealand, home to several thriving businesses,

with around 200 members. Centrepoint was concerned with personal growth and spirituality,

and members sought to be closer to God through the teachings of the group’s founder, Bert

Potter xxxvii. Potter taught a creed of non-possession – all worldly goods were given up to the

community upon joining and the community provided for all members’ material needs. Non-

possessive relationships were encouraged. Members sought to shake off the shackles of

Christian morality and find their true (and higher) selves. The physical space was organised

in such a way as to facilitate the group’s aims. Centrepoint occupied a plot which became

increasingly urban as the suburbs of Auckland crept outwards. The plot still feels separate

from nearby housing: community buildings are surrounded by a belt of trees, a plant nursery

and gardens and the land is accessed over a bridge across a small stream. Buildings had no

internal doors as privacy was identified as a barrier to group synthesis. For example,

bathrooms were communal and members slept in ‘long-houses’ (long open huts with no

internal walls). Within this ‘safe haven’, self-experimentation was encouraged. This was an

estranged utopian space in all of the senses discussed above.

In the 1980s and 90s, however, stories of paedophilia and drug manufacturing began to

emerge from Centrepoint. Potter and some of his close followers were convicted of serious

sexual offences and imprisonedxxxviii. Soon after Potter’s release from prison the community

was closed by the High Court on grounds of financial irregularity. In the intervening period,

following intense press scrutiny, the group turned inwards. Interviews indicate that internal

power relationships became increasingly corruptxxxix

. The group had always used therapy as


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part of its day-to-day activities and former members recall that when things were going well

they experienced a state of collective bliss. Surrounded by love, they felt that anything was

possible. Supported and cherished, they experienced a state of collective ecstasy. In later

years, however, some members challenged the leadership and were subjected to many

different forms of abuse and manipulation. One man recalled being regularly encircled by a

group of men, who would push their faces close to his own, muscles taut and fists clenched,

as they loudly and incessantly shouted abuse: ‘traitor, a turn-coat, scum’xl. One woman spoke

of punishment confiscations: no toothbrush, no tamponsxli. Another recalled the emotional

pain when the group turned against her, and the love that had nurtured her for years was

suddenly withdrawnxlii. Members were ‘free’ to leave at any time but they would be penniless,

having abandoned their possessions to the group. What the community had once given it now

withheld, leaving the challengers isolated within the group as well as estranged from the

wider community: alienated and devastated. Too much estrangement is a bad thing.

Separation, isolation, alienation and estrangement are intimately connected in this story. Just

as utopian fiction requires some level of estrangement for critical distance or cognition, so

intentional communities require it to pursue their collective projects. These groups need to

operate within self-set boundaries that separate them from the wider community, retaining

some spatial, emotional and normative distance. Estrangement requires separation. However,

this can generate material challenges and, more importantly, can deteriorate into collective

alienation.

Can this paradox be negotiated?

My research indicates a cautiously affirmative response to this question and suggests that the

answer lies in the boundaries that surround intentional communities. These boundaries are


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communities a nominated individual mentors guests, contacts visitors, and explains rules or

conventions. Such mechanisms contribute to the maintenance of a space in which collective

visions can be nurtured and pursued. When these boundary mechanisms fail, groups suffer,

losing coherence. A constant flow of visitors can drain the members: meeting new people,

explaining things and answering questions all distract them from daily practice and intentional

living.

Entrance and exit rules play an important role in maintaining group coherence and

stability. Prospective members are usually invited to visit on several occasions for

short stays before being permitted to take up trial membership. This can last anything

from three months to several years, depending on the level of commitment involved in

full membership. Riverside Community (New Zealand), for example, is an income-

pooling groupxlvi. At more than sixty years old, this is an extraordinarily robust

secular income-pooling groupxlvii. Membership requires considerable commitment –

including surrender of all monies to the communityxlviii. It can take a long time to

become a full member of this community. Similarly, traditional religious communities

have a long initiation period consisting of increasing commitments, culminating often

in vows that are binding for life. Even in more loosely-bound groups, entrance and

exit rules are important, as mistakes can be difficult to resolve. For example, Katajuta

Community on the west coast of New Zealand’s South Island started life over thirty

years ago with an ‘open-door’ policy because members felt that restrictions were

inappropriate to their anarchist ethos. By 2001, however, six of their eight community

rules related to procedures for joining and leaving the group. Entrance and exit are

now tightly constrained. Members recall this as a hard-learned lesson – a man joined

them, they told me, and he seemed fine until one day he started walking around with

no clothes on, claiming to be Jesus Christ. This was all right, they said, and nobody


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minded very much, until he began to insist that they kneel and worship him. He was

the new Messiah who would lead the community to everlasting glory. This hardly

fitted with their vision of the good life and there followed a difficult period from

which the group took some time to recover.

ii) mediating estrangement

Total estrangement, I have suggested, enhances an oppositional relationship with the wider

community and can contribute to collective alienation and its associated dangers. This should

be considered within the context of wider debates about self/other relations. These are

complex and manifold and space prohibits proper discussion. Briefly though, this is a

recurrent theme in the western canon of philosophy and political thought and political

theorists, theologians and philosophers continue to explore the various ways in which we

relate to the Other. The idea of a constitutive other emerged from the work of Hegel and has

been developed, extended and variously politicised by European philosophers such as Jean-

Paul Sartre, Emmanuel Levinas, Jacques Derrida, and Edward Said. There is a dominant

tendency in this scholarship towards a belief that self/other relations occur within an

oppositional paradigm and that this has important socio-political and philosophical

consequences. In this paradigm, self is opposed to other, sameness to difference, and interior

to exterior. People who are ‘like us’ become the ‘in’-group, known, familiar and trusted,

while those whom we judge ‘different’ become the Other. We thus establish an imaginary and

safe ‘inside’ and identify our fears with the outside. At its most extreme, those whom we

identify as Other are regarded as incomplete, inferior, less human and therefore undeserving

of the rules and norms that govern our treatment of those who share our defining

characteristics.

Our treatment of the unknown stranger with fear, suspicion, hatred and violence, then, can be

viewed as an empirical and ontological phenomenon which informs the conceptual membrane


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between ourselves and others. A range of alternative strategies have been proposed to

negotiate, resolve or combat this. For example, some seek to resolve the conflict by

embracing the Other in love and familiarity. This paradigm informs deep ecology, for

example. In this view, we should open ourselves to the Other (in this case, ‘nature’),

‘realising’ that we are part of a wider self xlix. A different approach seeks to retain an

ontological separation of self from other whilst transforming our affective response to

difference. In the work of Emmanuel Levinas, for example, the unknown Other is greeted

with awe. S/he is unknowable and wonderousl. In this conception, we should not attempt

cognitive assimilation of the Other ’s radical alterity. In this view, the other should always

remain unknown and difference unassimilated. Different again is Richard Kearney’s

approach, which advocates a strategy of what he calls ‘narrative bridges’ between the self and

the other li. Here, he hopes to foster dialogue between self and other without valorising or

negating difference but rather by encouraging us to note the differences and splits within

ourselves (the otherness inside us) and to seek some understanding of the other. These three

different strategies provide a flavour of the manifold alternatives that have been proposed in

recent years in response to the problems of self/other relations.

I do not profess to resolve or even significantly contribute to these debates but they are

pertinent to the discussion in hand. In practice, many of these approaches are difficult to

sustain with regard to the wider community. For example, members of some intentional

communities follow a deep ecological paradigm, seeking to open themselves to each other,

nature, or/and the divine. However, this approach cannot, as suggested in the above

discussions of the Findhorn Foundation, be sustained with regard to the wider community.

Similarly, some groups regard certain forms of ‘other ’ with wonder, for example, many

spiritual communities conceive of the divine in this way. In such cases, the face of the divine

can be greeted only with awe, for it is ultimately and always unknowable. This does not,


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however, extend to all ‘others’. A weaker form of this paradigm might be a distanced and

mutual respect for the Other, and many intentional communities assume this attitude to the

wider community. But intentional communities are primarily oppositional or critical of the

world around them and this complicates matters.

This story contains several complicating factors. Firstly, intentional communities are at once

inside and outside the wider community. They are embedded: they stem from it. They are part

of it. However, they exist because they are deeply critical of dominant norms, values and

practices. It follows that attitudes to ‘the outside’ will be critical. Secondly, self/other

relations occur inside and beyond the intentional community. Many groups seek transformed

human relationships but in practice, many communities establish differentiated attitudes to the

other. ‘Others’ (other members, divine beings, nature) who are ‘inside’ the group (materially,

conceptually, normatively, affectively) are greeted with openness, and awe, while the world

outside is regarded as Other in a more traditional sense. The outside thus becomes the

opposed, the inferior, or/and the bad and this reinforces group coherence.

Intentional communities necessarily operate at a normative and spatial distance from the

wider community. This creates self-marginalisation which permits them to function as utopian

spaces inside which members may explore visions of the good life. This is necessary and

difficult to endure because intentional communities pertain to the real: they are utopian but

not outopic: they contain real people who need sustainable relationships inside and beyond

their chosen communities. Part of the story of estrangement is a negotiation of the

consequences of a paradoxically embedded exteriority. They are estranged from and part of

the wider world. The following examination of a range of different practices illuminates

different ways that communities have attempted to reconcile this. Sometimes, for example,


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intentional communities confront physical, emotional and/or normative isolation by

deliberately interacting with the local and/or wider community.

Community schools are a case in point. Educational utopias have formed an important part of

the history of intentional communities and many have practised home schooling or founded

independent schools. Some fail due to lack of funds, practical or legal obstacles but many

persist. Two successful examples in New Zealand are the Mountain Valley School in the

South Island and the school at Timatanga Community in the North. The former was founded

by members of two intentional communities (Te Ora and nearby Graham Downslii

Community). The latter has the more traditional history in that it was founded by members of

one community. These schools practice alternative learning philosophiesliii. Both have sought

and achieved state recognition but retain considerable autonomy, being financially

independent. Both are patronised by parents from the wider community as well as local

intentional communities. These schools are spaces where people from intentional and wider

communities meet, interact, and co-operate. Parents collaborate for the best education of their

children. Children work and play together. This takes place in the ‘classroom’, in school

management, and at social events. Parents can join activities, sitting quietly with a pupil,

reading or working on a problem, craft project or game. The educational philosophy of these

schools assumes a wide conception of education and pupils learn through play and self-

directed study for much of the time. In visits, I observed mutually respectful relationships

between and amongst pupils, teachers and parent-assistants. Decisions about the day-to-day

running of the schools are made by all concerned. This extends from the physical design of

space inside the school (separate zones are dedicated to different learning activities and

children select their ‘lessons’ by going to the appropriate area) to the appointment of paid

staff, to the establishment and maintenance of rules and codes of behaviour. All are decided

upon collectively by children and adults on a consensual basis. I witnessed an impromptu


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meeting at Mountain Valley School in the South Island in which people were reminded of the

rules. I was impressed by the demeanour of adults and children, the sophistication of their

interpersonal skills, and the efficacy of their systems liv.

Both of these schools are in some way physically separated from the intentional community:

at Timatanga the school sits at the front of the community property while other community

buildings and homes lie towards the rear of the property. In this way member’s privacy is

protected. Similarly, Mountain Valley School is located on its own site, a few minutes’

distance from Te Ora and Graham Downs Communities. The communities retain their privacy

whilst creating a dedicated space to which the wider community is invited. This physical

space is governed by the normative rules and norms of the intentional community.

Interchange of ideas occurs and these rules and norms may shift and re-form, but the space is

nonetheless created and maintained with the intent of sharing the group’s values and practices

with the wider community.

These are intentional transgressions of the communal boundary, permitting a flow of ideas

and relationships. Such phenomena are not restricted to schools and can occur whenever

groups dedicate some communal space to outreach activities. For example, intentional

communities sometimes lend or rent their meeting rooms, studios, kitchens or residential

accommodation free of charge or at sub-commercial rates, for the sake of goodwill,

dissemination or as part of a wider utopian project. Many groups establish commercial outlets

which reflect their values, such as co-operative food stores and cafes, or shops selling ethical

or ‘green’ products. Others develop businesses such as eco-tours, or workers’ co-operatives.

Such initiatives are multifunctional and can mediate estrangement in a variety of ways:

introducing and explaining the community vision, proselytizing its message and/or rendering

individual members more familiar.


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Most communities create time-limited openings of their spatial boundary at some point during

the year. This might be a harvest celebration, like the annual Fig Festival at the remote

Karuna Falls Community or the annual music festival at the sixty-year old community of

Riverside, or it might be a more formal occasion. Many groups host dedicated Open Dayslv.

On such occasions, the community becomes a showcase for an alternative lifestyle as choices

are explained, ie, ‘We have an anaerobic composting toilet: here it is, see how it looks and

smells (or rather doesn’t smell), understand that this is why we choose to dispose of our waste

in this way … Here is our sauna, and this is how we power it from the wind turbine…’.

Several groups generate income by providing training, often drawing directly on skills gained

in the community (conflict resolution techniques, consensus decision-making mechanisms)

or/and drawn from the heart of their shared beliefs (permaculture gardening, low-impact

waste disposal). The aim is dissemination of ideas and good practice. An (unintended?)

outcomelvi can be improved relationships with the neighbours.

Participation in local government, campaigns or initiatives can have similar outcomes. For

example, members of Beech Hill Community in Devon piloted a local recycling and

composting scheme which has now been adopted by the local council. Activities of this kind

spread good practice and persuade through action. They also have the effect of demystifying

the intentional community as local residents come to know individuals and to gain

understanding of the group’s aims. They thus represent tenuous bridges across the gap

between intentional and wider communities. Some initiatives have clear didactic intent while

others are more open-ended, seeking to facilitate communication and debate. An instance of

this occurs at the farmers’ market in the town of Kaipara, New Zealand, each Saturday

morning. Members of nearby Otamatea Ecovillage sell surplus organic produce at the market

and have started a guest lecture scheme in an adjacent tea-room. I was invited to talk about

my research on intentional communities and found myself addressing a mixed audience


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containing market gardeners, members of nearby intentional communities, local teenagers,

shoppers taking a rest, elderly men and women and passers by. Some had come for a cup of

tea without realising there was a speaker; others had seen the event advertised and made a

special journey. There was prolonged debate and it was an interesting experience.

The mediation of estrangement can also be an unintended outcome of the actions of individual

members who develop normative, social, financial or service-based relationships beyond the

community. The founder of Mahamudra Buddhist Retreat Centre on the Coromandel

Peninsula, for example, has established himself as a widely respected sheep shearer. This may

seem a quaint example, but his actions significantly influenced the attitude of the local

population towards the community. This is a deeply rural and remote district, the economy of

which focuses on primary industries (farming and logging) and some tourism. Rural

communities are historically socially conservative. In interview the founder recalled that

Mahamudra was at first regarded with some suspicion:

I think, perhaps by coincidence, that my becoming a shearing contractor actually

helped that whole thing quite a lot. Before that, there was a certain standoffishness

from the local farmers, quite justifiably. People that came here [community founders]

were extremely different and they were buying up large farms and not farming them.

There was quite a lot of resistance really from the established farmers. So when I was

a shearing contractor, and a lot of people working for me were alternative people, this

got a lot of close attention and the farmers could see that they were actually just

ordinary people. They might have slightly different ideas about the way that they

want to conduct their lives but they are just people with families, trying to earn a

living and getting on with life. I think that cut down a lot of resentment they felt about

it, and now I think it’s reasonably harmonious between the two. There is still a


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separation between us socially which is understandable, but there is certainly a much

greater acceptancelvii’

The same person was instrumental in setting up the co-operative store in nearby Colville. This

is the only shop for miles around, the nearest town being an hour ’s drive away. In 1976, he

established a vegetable co-operative with members of other communities in the district,

shortly afterwards this group took on the failing local store. This now provides an outlet for

local produce, employment and supplies of basic foodstuffs. It is governed in a way that

reflects the norms and beliefs of the nearby intentional communities. Profit-making has never

been a high priority for this co-operative. Instead, they focus on providing employment and

good quality, well-priced produce. The benefits are tangible - employment, and a local shop –

as well as intangible – cross-community co-operation, shared commitment and ownership of a

collective resource, enhanced affective relationships.

This brief discussion has illuminated just some of the ways that intentional communities

mediate estrangement as members carefully negotiate relationships with their neighbours.

Boundaries are crossed in different ways and with different effects. Ideas and practices may

spread, for example. And the actions and lifestyles of the intentional community can be

demystified. Individual members assume the role of specialists, active citizens, facilitators,

educators or co-workers, becoming less strange and more familiar.

Conclusions

In this paper I have considered the role of estrangement in utopia, illustrating

discussions by reference to the experiences of one subset of utopian experiments:

intentional communities. I have attempted to illuminate some of the many paradoxes

inherent in this relationship and have argued that estrangement is both necessary and

difficult for utopian projects. Ultimately, the relationship between estrangement and


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utopia is complex and ambiguous because of paradoxes inherent in the two core

concepts. Estrangement facilitates utopian distance and has potentially liberating

critical and political functions. It also stems from an etymological lineage of pain, loss

and exclusion. This all pertains to tensions within the ‘ou’ of utopia.

On the one hand, estrangement is a necessary component of utopianism. In fictional

utopias it permits critical distance through spatial or temporal separation: the

imagined ‘good place’ is set apart from the now, usually in another time or place. This

better world is guided by different values from our own and organised by different

socio-political arrangements. Estrangement renders utopia extraordinary and

extraneous, placing it beyond the now. Scholars in the field tend to celebrate this,

endorsing the excess and difference of the classical utopias, evoking what Geoghegan

calls their ‘flagrant otherness’lviii. The otherness of utopia gives it power, and this

stems from its transgressive, rule-breaking approach to the exercise of social

criticism. In this reading, utopias are radically different, they break and inhabit new

ground, criticising the now from a better place. They play by their own rules.

However, it is important to note that in fictional utopias the visitor plays a key role in

mediating estrangement. S/he provides a link to the now, casting a contemporaneous

gaze over the new world, glancing back at her/his own with a (usually growing) sense

of discomfort. This affords a connection to the now, or ‘one foot in realitylix’.

Intentional communities share some of these traits and the story of their relationship

with estrangement is similar but more problematic. They exist in spaces which are

(variously and necessarily) set apart from the wider community. Here, members

practice alternative ways of being, which range from simple domestic arrangements to


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deep experiments with self and other. From here, they cast a critical gaze at the wider

world and some attempt to influence external events. Others focus on self-realisation.

These communities are critical spaces, consisting of disaffected individuals who share

common ideas about the good life. These ideas may or may not be formalised into a

mission statement or formulated as a clear vision. They may or may not belong to part

of a wider ideological, political or spiritual tradition. But they are always affirmed by

the group and form an important bond between members. In order to function as

utopian spaces, and in order to begin to realise their intent, intentional communities

require distance from the wider community. I have suggested that physical separation

facilitates the development of alternative normative agendas and practices. It permits

people to begin to explore their version of the good life in a relatively safe space.

From this space, they view the wider world with an estranged gaze that has glimpsed

a better way.

On the other hand, estrangement contributes to some of the most challenging aspects of living

a utopian dream. Intentional communities want to be different and estrangement is part of

this: they seek and practice alternatives. At the same time, estrangement places community

members in a position of permanent social otherness. Otherness is part of the utopian project

and utopias encapsulate radical difference. This can be empowering, exciting and

inspirational. It has a certain glamour. But the life of a perpetual outsider is a lonely one.

Estrangement affords many opportunities and freedoms, like the safety of a normatively and

physically defined space in which to develop and practice alternative values and lifestyles. It

also has a cost, and this can lead groups to become introspective, socially isolated and

collectively alienated from the wider world. Under these circumstances intentional


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communities can become dangerous places. Deliberate manipulation by leaders and/or

collective shifts to extremity can very quickly spin a group into darkly dystopic reality.

The discussions above indicate that it is possible (and necessary) to mediate the

negative impacts of estrangement in intentional communities. I have suggested that

the boundaries that surround intentional communities need to be punctured and kept

porous. This requires constant vigilance and agency is important. Intentional

communities need to be self-estranged and to monitor and police their own

boundaries. Like all alternative groups, they need this in order to self-identify. As

utopian groups, they have a particular need to develop and maintain shared visions

and to protect themselves as they engage in utopian practices.

At least part of the paradoxical relationship between utopia and estrangement stems

from the tension within the ou of utopia and it is with this that I want to conclude. As

noted above, estrangement pertains to the ou of utopia. It places utopias in a remote

and critical elsewhere. It thus contributes to the critical function of utopias, permitting

their otherness and radical difference from the now. And yet, utopias are not only

fabulous. They are also deeply embedded in the now and utopianism maintains an

important tension between the fantastic and the real. By being always in some other

place (no-place), utopian fictions occur outside our experience, outside our now and

are thus unbound by the limitations of our present. In this sense, they are impossible.

However, utopias are always rooted in the here-and-now. They are not completely

unfamiliar, fantastical or cognitively remote. They are not, in other words, completely

alien. This returns us to the power of estrangement as conceived by Suvin: utopian

fiction disturbs and re-presents the familiar. For this to occur, utopias need to be


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attached to the now. This is the power and the beauty of utopias: they are at once ‘no-

place’ and ‘good- place’: in an estranged ‘no- place’, they evoke a vision of the good

life, and from this estranged ‘no- place’, they criticise the now. Without this

connection utopia would lose its critical purchase and cease to be utopia.

Similarly, though also differently, intentional communities need to retain a connection

with the now for practical and ontological reasons. Practically, my research indicates

that total disconnection is dangerous: fear and ignorance are powerful motivators,

particularly when they intertwine with or replace a utopic vision. Collective alienation

can lead groups to become more oppositional and less utopian, impelled by fear and

mistrust, and no longer compelled towards an idea of a better life. Ontologically, total

estrangement negates the critical utopian function of these groups. Utopias must be

connected to the now to enable the critical gaze.

The story of utopian estrangement, then, is a strange one. Estrangement permits

utopias to exist beyond the normative boundaries of the now. And it embeds them

firmly within the now. It requires that intentional communities, as utopian

experiments, exist in a condition of perpetually precarious balance between inside and

outside, at once embedded and separate, and this is part of their power and their

danger, their strength and their weakness.

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Bammer, A., Partial Visions: feminism and utopianism in the 1970. London: New York,

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Black, V., The Spirit of the Coromandel. Auckland: Reed Methuen, 1985.


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Brown, R., Group Processes: Dynamics Within and Between Groups. Oxford: Blackwell,

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Brown, R. & Gaertner, S.L., (eds), Intergroup Processes. Oxford: Blackwell: 2003.

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perspective. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1972.

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Socioligical Review Vol 1, Issue 6 Dec 1936, 894-904.

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Moylan, Tom Demand the Impossible: science fiction and the utopian imagination. New

York and London: Methuen, 1986.

Moylan, T., ‘Look into the dark: On Dystopia and the Novum, in Parrinder, 2000: 51-70

Moylan, T., Scraps of the Untainted Sky: science fiction, utopia, dystopia. Boulder,

Colorado: Westview Press, 2000.

Naess,A., ‘The Shallow and the Deep, the Long-Range Ecology Movement. A Summary.’

Inquiry Vol 16, 1990. 95-100.

Oakes, L., Inside Centrepoint: The Story of a New Zealand Community. Auckland, Benton

Ross Publishers, 1986.

Parrinder, P., ‘Revisiting Suvin’s Poetics of Science Fiction’ in Parrinder, 2000.

Parrinder, P., (ed), Learning From Other Worlds: estrangement, cognition and the politics of

science fiction. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000.

Sargent, L. T., ‘The Three Faces of Utopianism’ The Minnesota Review Vol 7, no3, 1967,

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Sargent, L.T., ‘The Ohu Movement’ New Zealand Studies Vol 6, Nov 1996.

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Sargisson, L., & Sargent, L.T., Living in Utopia New Zealand’s Intentional Communities.

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Unpublished Primary Source Material

Chippenham Community meeting minutes, 1979-2000

Chippenham Community Constitution

Riverside Community Constitution

Riverside Community Statement of Financial Commitment

Katajuta Community Constitution

This paper refers to material from transcripts of interviews with members of UK

communities: Beech Hill Community, Devon, Erraid Community, Isle of Erraid,

Findhorn Foundation Community, Forres, and New Zealand communities: Anahata

Community, Centrepoint Community, Community of the Sacred Name, Friends’

Settlement, Te Ora Community, Timatanga Community, Graham Downs Community,

Mahmudra Bhuddist Centre, Otamatea Ecovillage, Karuna Falls Community.

i A technical point worth clarifying at an early stage concerns my usage of the term ‘intentional community’. Anintentional community, in this paper, is taken to be a group of people who have chosen to live (and sometimeswork) together for some common purpose. Their reason for being extends beyond tradition, personal

relationships or family ties. This definition includes many different forms of intentional communities, such ascommunes, eco-villages and some housing co-operatives, co-housing groups and religious communities.It stems from the work of Lyman Tower Sargent: Sargent, L. T., ‘The Three Faces of Utopianism’ The

Minnesota Review Vol 7, no3, 1967, 222-30 and Sargent, L.T.,. ‘Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited’ inUtopian Studies vol 5, no1, 1994, 1-37. For recent accounts of definitional debates, see Sargisson, L., & Sargent,L.T., Living in Utopia New Zealand’s Intentional Communities. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004esp 2-6, and Metcalf,W., The Findhorn Book of Community Living. Forres, Findhorn Press, 2004: esp 8-11.ii Suvin, D., ‘On the Poetics of the Science Fiction Genre.’ College English 34.3, December 1972: 375;

Suvin, D., Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979: 49; SuvinD.,‘Defining the Literary Genre of Utopia: Some Historical Semantics, Some Genealogy, a Proposal,and a Plea.’ in Studies in the Literary Imagination 6.2 1973, 121-45. For critical discussions of Suvin’swork, see Moylan, T., Scraps of the Untainted Sky: science fiction, utopia, dystopia. Boulder,Colorado: Westview Press, 2000, esp. 41-8, 73-5, and the excellent edited collection Parrinder, P., (ed)

Learning From Other Worlds: estrangement, cognition and the politics of science fiction. Liverpool:


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Liverpool University Press, 2000, esp. essays by Parrinder, P., ‘Revisiting Suvin’s Poetics of ScienceFiction’, 36-50, and Moylan, T., ‘Look into the dark: On Dystopia and the Novum’ , 51-70.iii The data for this paper were gathered during two research projects. One was an independent studyfunded by the ESRC. The other occurred as part of a larger collaborative project with Lyman TowerSargent, funded by The University of Nottingham and the British Academy. Discussions refer to

material from interview transcripts with members from the following UK communities: Beech HillCommunity, Erraid Community, Findhorn Foundation Community, and the following New Zealandcommunities: Anahata Community, Centrepoint Community, Community of the Sacred Name,Friends’ Settlement, Te Ora Community, Timatanga Community, Graham Downs Community, Mahmudra Bhuddist Centre, Otamatea Ecovillage, Karuna Falls Community.iv For a discussion of this, see Levitas, R., The Concept of Utopia. Hemel Hempstead: Philip Allan,

1990.v Critical in the generic sense and also in the sense identified by Tom Moylan in Demand the

Impossible: science fiction and the utopian imagination. New York and London: Methuen, 1986.vi Vincent Geoghegan Utopianism and Marxism. London: Methuen, 1987: 1-2.

vii Tom Moylan, Demand the Impossible: science fiction and the utopian imagination. New York andLondon: Methuen, 1986.viii

Suvin’s work has had lasting impact but is controversial. Whilst this essay is not concerned with

normative assessment of Suvin’s work, we should note that has been exhaustively undertaken. See, forexample, Patrick Parrinder ’s Learning From Other Worlds: estrangement, cognition and the politics of

science fiction. (note iii)ix

Suvin, D., ‘On the Poetics of the Science Fiction Genre.’ College English 34.3, December 1972: 375.x Suvin, D., Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979: 49. See also Suvin,D., ‘Defining the Literary Genre of Utopia: Some Historical Semantics, Some Genealogy, a Proposal, and aPlea’ in Studies in the Literary Imagination 6.2 1973, 121-45.xi

Parrinder, P., ‘Revisiting Suvin’s Poetics of Science Fiction.’ in Parrinder, ed Learning From OtherWorlds: estrangement, cognition and the politics of science fiction. Liverpool: Liverpool UniversityPress, 2000.xii Berthold Brecht, cited in Suvin, D., ‘On the Poetics of the Science Fiction Genre.’ College English 34.3, December 1972: 374.xiii

See, for example, Bammer, A., Partial Visions: feminism and utopianism in the 1970s. London: New York,

1991 and Moylan, T., Demand the Impossible: science fiction and the utopian imagination. New York andLondon: Methuen, 1986.xiv

See Turner, J.C., and Reynolds, K. J., ‘The Social Identity Process in Intergroup Relations: Theories, Themes,and Controversies’ in Brown, R. & Gaertner, S.L, (eds) Intergroup Processes. Oxford: Blackwell: 2003: 133-152, and Hogg, M,A., The Social Psychology of Cohesiveness: From Attraction to Social Identity. London:Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1992.xv

Bammer, A., Partial Visions: feminism and utopianism in the 1970s. London: New York, 1991; Sargisson, L.,Contemporary Feminist Utopianism. London & New York: Routledge, 1996; and Bullwell, J., Notes on

Nowhere: feminism, utopian logic and social transformation. Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 1997.xvi

Naess, A ‘The Shallow and the Deep, the Long-Range Ecology Movement. A Summary.’ Inquiry Vol 16, 1990. 95-100.xvii Fox, W., Towards a Transpersonal Ecology: developing the foundations for environmentalism London and Boston: Sambhala, 1990.xviii She no longer guides the community in this way but remains a focal point within the group.xix For an accessible account of life at the Findhorn Foundation, see Metcalf, W., The Findhorn Book ofCommunity Living. Forres: Findorn Press. 2004.xx

Kanter, R. M., Commitment and Community: communes and utopias in sociological perspective. Cambridge,Mass: Harvard University Press, 1972.xxi In 1973 Chippenham purchased a neighbouring property and farm some 10 miles distant. Theseoperate as semi-autonomous communities.xxii

Sargisson, L., and Sargent, L.T., Living in Utopia: New Zealand’s Intentional Communities.London: Ashgate, 2004, 84-7.xxiii

Chippenham Community Constitution.xxiv

See Sargisson, L., ‘Surviving Conflict: the case of New Zealand’s intentional communities.’ New Zealand Sociology, 18.2, 2003: 225-50.xxv

In Britain they often settled in less-populated areas like North Wales and Scotland. In New Zealandthey were even more remote. For a short time the New Zealand government sponsored the


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xliv The eruv creates a symboloc extension of the home within a spatially defined area, thus allowing all

but Ultra-Orthodox Jewish people to leave their homes during the Sabbath.xlv Cooper, D., Challenging Diversity: rethinking equality and the value of difference. Cambridge:Cambridge University Press, 2004, 168.xlvi

Riverside Community Constitution and Statement of Financial Commitment.

xlvii Founded by Methodist conscientious objectors after the second world war, it secularised in the1960s but retains a commitment to its core values and practices, including the income-pool.xlviii

Under current rules, money is deposited into a community account. If a member resigns they maytake their deposit with them but without interest. The same rule applies to money inherited duringmembership.xlix

Fox, W., Towards a Transpersonal Ecology: developing the foundations for environmentalism. London: Shambhala, 1990.l Levinas, E., Totality and Infinity Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press 1969.li Kearney, R., Stranger, Gods and Monsters Abingdon: Routledge, 2003, 17.lii

Graham Downs Community is also sometimes known as ‘Renaissance’.liii In particular, pupil-led learning as advocated and practiced by the Summerhill School in England.liv

The meeting was called by a boy of about ten years old (Michael). Some bicycles had been left out inthe rain and the new teacher had asked Michael about this. Michael called a meeting, which lasted just

a few minutes, and reminded everyone that they had agreed to store bicycles and other equipmentunder cover in order to protect them from rain. The children concerned explained that the shower hadcome so suddenly that they had dropped their bikes and run inside, but agreed that they should have putthe bikes into the shed first. This agreed, the bicycles were retrieved and everyone returned to theirreading, sums, cooking, and other activities.lv Rural and urban groups do this. Examples include Otamatea Ecovillage (near Kiapara) and the city-

based co-housing group at Earthsong (Waitakere City) which have formal Open Days involving toursand lectures.lvi See Merton, R. K., ‘The Unanticipated Consequences of Purposive Social Action’ in American Socioligical

Review Vol 1, Issue 6 Dec 1936, 894-904.lvii Interview: Roy Fraser, Mahamudra, 21.04.00.lviii Geoghegan, V., Utopianism and Marxism. London: Methuen, 1987: 1-2.lix

‘To live in a world that cannot be but where one fervently wishes to be: that is the literal essence of utopia….

So from its very inception with More utopia embodies two impulses, tending often in opposite directions. … Italways goes beyond the immediately practicable, and it may go so far beyond as to be in the most realistic senseswholly impracticable. But it is never simply dreaming. It always has one foot in reality.’ Kumar K., Utopianism. Buckingham, Open University Press, 1991: 1-2.

second-wave cohousing a modern utopia

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