“We’re coming for you with pitchforks,” he wrote, “Just you wait.”
I told him he should come, but to leave the pitchfork behind.
“Welcome. Maybe bring a mechanical keyboard and a latte,” I responded. “Pull up a chair. You can share my cube. Look at these beige walls.”
They’re either beige or brown, nobody cares. “Just pull up your chair and set to hammering away on that keyboard. Nobody starts out an expert. We all start as beginners. Then we take one step at a time.”
They’re coming for me with pitchforks, I’m told. You can’t eat money, but you can eat the rich. Wait, what? Isn’t that cannibalism?
We have cokes in the fridge. We have red vines. Don’t eat too many or your head will get kind of buzzy. Remember to exercise every day, or most days, or at least sometimes. Or at least intend to exercise.
Wear an N95 mask when the sky turns red and the ash starts to settle on your car. Run an air purifier in your bedroom so you can sleep through through the night as the forests burn, as the ocean boil, as the industrial revolution shifts into the age of intelligent machines.
Try to sleep through the night as they march from the villages and farms with pitchforks in hand, rage in their hearts. These poor, confused people.
“Where’s the hay?” They seem to be asking, implicitly, with their forks.
“The hay? You want hay? Make hay while the sun shines,” the stock-broker told me twenty years ago, as he cashed-in my seed-fortune to buy Nortel (went bankrupt) because, “we like Nortel.”
That’s not true; you just like money. This is my personal pitchfork moment. Who’s stealing from whom? I’m just here banging away on my keyboard, moving bits from one end of the hard drive to the other. A well-compensated bit reorganizer.
You don’t like it?
Put down your pitchfork and pick up a craft. Learn to write or code or create. It’s free. It’s all free. It’s all online. It’s one click away from that newsfeed your eyeballs are locked into. It’s one click away from this comment thread where you’re threatening to eat me alongside that can of black beans you stored the last time you thought the world was going to end.
The world is not ending. It’s getting hotter, and colder, and more volatile because we’ve been releasing millions of years of ancient sunshine into the atmosphere. There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s just what’s happening.
So come, but bring a screwdriver, or a wrench, or some new ideas. But leave the pitchfork at home. It’s not because I don’t like pitchforks; they look cool on the wall and all. But bring something useful like some engineering skills or your favorite poem or a drawing you did of your dog.
Look, there’s no need for pitchforks. Also, I’m pretty sure I don’t taste that great anyway.