From the desk of Roland Rocchiccioli – 13 June

It takes a deal of courage, but I have done it. I have thrown-out 55-years of my life; however, I am not certain I have done the right thing, entirely!

FOR the most part, our lives are a structured continuum of minutiae; a string of events cobbled together in our not-always reliable minds, and which are clouded, to a greater or lesser degree, by fact and fiction. Be it verbal or written, no two recollections of any one event are consistent, however minor might be the point of difference.

For whatever reason, I had saved diligently, and certainly it was not ego, original copies of columns, articles – both written and about, and various working and social memorabilia. The entire collection was stored, safely, in a large, hand-painted, bright orange tin trunk, and which, for years, I have lugged from one location to another.

Rarely, if ever, did I take the time to look at what I had saved. Why would I? I knew what the trunk contained, and I am not yet at that stage in my life where I need to look back to past triumphs in the pursuit of contentment. Life continues to offer challenges and opportunities. Ideally, I would like to drop-down dead on the job!

The culling was a forced decision.

A friend, Brad Miller, came to stay. While I was away in Sydney he built and installed floor-to-ceiling bookcases in my sitting room. With the best of intentions, he carried the packing boxes and the orange trunk from the garage. When I returned the books were shelved, and the orange trunk, like Pandora’s box, had been opened, waiting to be sorted! It was a sign: the moment of reckoning had arrived.

It took some days, and patience, to look at every saved item. Some were given the scantest of glances, while other pieces were considered more seriously. In the end, I saved a small pile, and which now are stored on the bottom shelf of the bookcases.

Work is the rent you pay for the space you occupy on earth.

Bagging and disposing of the years of work caused me to ponder; to evaluate the relevance of the work; and the big conundrum – the meaning, and the merit of the contribution.

My parents were possessed of a deep-seated work ethic. My mother’s the outcome of the Salvation Army Girls’ Home where she spent 13 years of her childhood. My father was a Tuscan shepherd before he came to Australia in 1926. The work was gruelling. He died, aged 63, from silicosis and tuberculosis; a consequence of working as an underground machine miner in shafts with poor ventilation.

Myriad thoughts swirled as I sorted through the hundreds of press cuttings, yellowed and brittle with age; pictures taken with various people, some of whom I neither know, nor remember; columns about places and events which, despite my best efforts, drew a total blank.

The collection of photographs saved over the years mark the passage of time; a tangible record of the canon of the work. A picture of me with the late, beautiful Darryl Cotton swamped me with sorrow.

I discovered a triptych which I had not seen in almost 50-years. Taken by the great Melbourne fashion photographer, Bruno Benini, they formed part of a glamorous exhibition of his work.

I stared at the black and white image; ruminating; trying desperately to make sense of the young man with the mop of blonde hair, and the clear, bright, sparkling eyes. I knew it was me, obviously. I was 26, and making my way in the world with implacability, and a degree of success, but I barely recognised him. It was like another life in another land I tried to imagine what Bruno might have said which caused me to raise my hand. I remember nothing.

The purging of my life shows how much, and how little, we really remember!

It is all so fleeting.

Roland can be contacted via [email protected].