Shooting from the lip

And then there’s the maverick: the North-Easter.

The Berg Wind’s a jester, a revolutionary. Refuses to obey the rules.

It snarls wickedly and threatens – but its air is warm, even hot.

Out on our bikes, I was teaching my little daughter how the exhilarating Berg can teach one to dance. Live fiercely. If you relinquish control.

But the Berg also causes havoc with trees. They’ve grown to look after themselves, withstand the 180° SE-NW binary. But the Berg hits them from left field. It asks difficult questions. Disrupts the protected, established order. So it’s the noisiest wind of all, as leaves crackle off with no resistance.

As Beth and I cycled, buffeted – that song from 1988 blew into our chorus:

“How can we dance when our Earth is turning?

“How do we sleep while our beds are burning?”

Their words were both literal and metaphoric. About the demise of the Aboriginal Pintupi people – among the very last to come in from the desert, submit to the new order.

And confronting gross historic injustice – and manifestations still today. The Guardian, 2014:

is arguably the most resonantly subversive artistic gesture ever made by Australians.”

At the 2000 Sydney Olympics, Midnight Oil sang clothed in black, a single word printed on their chests: “Sorry.”

The song “builds to an instantly irresistible and unforgettable chorus which, as all great protest songs do, invites you either to agree with its premise, or satisfactorily explain to yourself why you don’t”.

What a line. That uncommon practice of self-reflection, in a world of clinging self-protection.

This column was meant to be about Father’s Day.

Perhaps it still is. But June 16, too – just a day before. About our duty: To father with ferocity. To show (don’t tell) how to laugh with the wild wind. And also to stare down our captors. To serve only our conscience. Stand tall for human dignity. To be truthful. And free.