I took this 'how to build computers' course basically because I'm

The visionary author Pat Cadigan, often called the Queen of Cyberpunk, once declared with defiance and determination: “I took this 'how to build computers' course basically because I'm sick and tired of getting ripped off by cheesy computer companies. Software baffles me. I like hardware. I used to change my own oil, and now I want to build my own computer so I can have what I want.” At first glance, her words seem practical, almost mundane—a complaint about the frustrations of technology. But beneath their humor and fire lies a greater philosophy, one born of self-reliance, rebellion, and the eternal human desire to understand and master the tools that shape our lives. It is a cry not only against exploitation, but against helplessness itself.

In the ancient spirit of inventors and artisans, Cadigan’s declaration speaks to the sacred act of taking back control. In every age, humanity has faced the temptation to become passive before its own creations—to worship the machine rather than command it. But the wise know that freedom lies in understanding. Just as the blacksmith of old learned to forge his own sword rather than depend on another’s craftsmanship, so too does Cadigan seek mastery over the modern forge—the computer. Her frustration is not merely with companies or products, but with dependence itself. To be “ripped off,” as she says, is to surrender one’s power to those who profit from ignorance. Her answer is ancient: learn, create, and reclaim what has been lost.

She admits, with humility, that software baffles her. Yet this confession does not weaken her—it strengthens her humanity. The ancients taught that wisdom begins not with knowledge, but with acknowledgment of what one does not know. From Socrates to Da Vinci, every great thinker began by confronting confusion not as a wall, but as a gate to discovery. Cadigan’s preference for hardware, for the tangible and mechanical, reflects a yearning to feel the pulse of the world through her own hands—to touch and shape it, rather than be shaped by it. In this she joins the lineage of those who refuse to be mere users of technology; she becomes a creator, an alchemist of the digital age.

Her desire to “build my own computer so I can have what I want” echoes the spirit of independence that once drove explorers across the seas and pioneers across untamed lands. It is the voice of the craftsman, the inventor, the self-taught genius who refuses to wait for others to deliver perfection. The story of Charles Babbage, the father of the computer, comes to mind. When he grew weary of the endless human errors in mathematical tables, he did not complain—he imagined a machine that could calculate without fatigue or flaw. Likewise, Cadigan does not yield to frustration; she transforms it into creation. In her words, the act of building is not just mechanical—it is a form of liberation.

The ancients would have called this impulse techne—the sacred skill of making. It was through techne that humanity rose from dust, shaping stone, metal, and eventually, circuits. But each age must rediscover this truth for itself. Cadigan’s frustration with “cheesy computer companies” is the modern version of the ancient craftsman’s rage against shoddy merchants or deceitful tradesmen. Her rebellion is not simply against flawed machines—it is against the passivity that allows others to decide the limits of her world. By learning to build, she is not only creating a machine; she is restoring her dignity.

There is also a deeper current in her words—a longing for authenticity in an era of automation. To “change my own oil,” as she recalls, was once an act of ownership and understanding. It meant knowing the inner workings of one’s tools, honoring the craft that sustained daily life. But in the modern world, convenience has replaced comprehension. We consume what we cannot repair, and we depend on systems we do not understand. Cadigan’s yearning to return to making is thus an act of resistance—a reminder that the spirit of craftsmanship, though buried under layers of technology, still beats within us.

The lesson here is both practical and profound: do not let the tools of your age rule you. Learn them. Open them. Rebuild them. Whether it be a computer, a skill, or the very structure of your life, take the time to understand what lies beneath the surface. When the world offers you only products, seek knowledge; when it offers you only ease, seek mastery. For the one who builds, even imperfectly, holds a power that the passive consumer never will.

Thus, Pat Cadigan’s words are more than a complaint—they are a manifesto of empowerment. She reminds us that the path to freedom is not paved with comfort but with curiosity. Her spirit is that of the ancient makers, the tinkerers and visionaries who refused to accept the world as given and instead shaped it anew. To build is to become sovereign; to understand is to become free. Let her words awaken in you that same hunger—to grasp the workings of your world, to master your tools, and to claim your right to create what you desire. For in the act of creation, the soul reclaims its nobility, and the human spirit, once again, becomes divine.