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ROADKILL AND LOATHING IN SOUTHERN TASMANIA: PART 4
For Rusty
We drank Rusty’s whisky last night
Rusty’s bottle of whisky had sat on the shelf for three years, never to be drunk because that would be to forget him.
At some point, though, it had to be drunk.
We had to drink it because we wanted to remember.
And because we sacrificed Rusty’s whisky — his memory — so we could remember, I must share with you what I remembered.
Some people don’t like city living. They feel crowded in by the people and the buildings. They don’t like the noises or the smells. They seek out the country to put some space around themselves.
Yet country living fostered a different kind of community. Tight knit, everyone knowing everyone else’s business.
While Rusty found a home in the Upper Derwent Valley, he recoiled from this also. A private man, he nonetheless possessed a deep intelligence and life experience which, given the right moment, would bubble to the surface, leaving my jaw dropped to the floor. Expect the unexpected.
I understood. As a writer and artist, seeking out solitude in nature is a natural inclination. Exploring my thoughts and creativity in a crowded, noisy room isn’t easy.