Nikola Tesla, one of Colorado's famous residents, always believed

Host: The Colorado night was electric.
Not with neon or traffic or noise — but with wind, alive and ancient, sweeping across the plains and colliding with the first shadows of the Rockies. The air smelled of iron and pine, and somewhere in the dark distance, the hum of a distant power line sang faintly — like a ghost remembering the dream of a man who once tried to give light to the world for free.

Jack stood on a dirt ridge overlooking the valley. A small Tesla coil replica pulsed faintly at his feet, throwing tendrils of violet lightning into the cold air. Jeeny sat nearby on the hood of an old truck, wrapped in a flannel blanket, her hair glowing faintly in the intermittent flashes.

Host: The sky above them was a cathedral of stars, so bright it made the world below seem primitive.

Jeeny: “Kimbal Musk once said, ‘Nikola Tesla, one of Colorado’s famous residents, always believed that the gasoline engine made no sense.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “It never did. It just made money.”

Jeeny: “And that’s been our problem ever since — profit always outruns purpose.”

Jack: “Tesla wasn’t just an inventor. He was a prophet. He saw energy as liberation. We turned it into dependency.”

Jeeny: “He wanted to make the world wireless. We ended up making it restless.”

Host: The coil crackled again — blue arcs leaping skyward, burning into the night. The electricity painted their faces in cold light — both beautiful, both haunted by thought.

Jack: “You know, it’s ironic. Tesla dreamed of clean power before we even knew what pollution was. He thought nature and technology were supposed to collaborate, not compete.”

Jeeny: “And a century later, we’re still trying to reinvent what he already solved.”

Jack: “Because no one believed a man who didn’t worship profit.”

Jeeny: “Or war.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying with it the smell of ozone and memory. The sound of the electric coil merged with the rustle of the grass — a strange duet between human ambition and the earth that bore it.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it must’ve been like for him — walking through this same land, full of ideas no one could understand? He must’ve felt like a man living a century too soon.”

Jack: “Or maybe a century too honest.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of visionaries. They dream so far ahead that the present feels like punishment.”

Jack: “Yeah. And when they die, we call them geniuses. Too late for them to hear it.”

Host: A flash of lightning broke across the mountains — real lightning this time, bright and jagged, almost answering the coil’s imitation. For a heartbeat, the entire landscape glowed with a kind of cosmic intimacy.

Jack: “You know, Musk quoting Tesla makes sense. He’s trying to finish what the man started — freeing energy from combustion.”

Jeeny: “But even he’s caught in the same paradox. To save the planet, you have to sell it something first.”

Jack: “Yeah. Vision still needs investors.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cruel poetry of progress.”

Host: The coil hissed once, then fell silent. The hum of electricity faded into the vastness of the night. Jack reached down and shut it off, leaving only the sound of the wind and the faint ticking of cooling metal.

Jack: “You know, when Tesla came to Colorado Springs, he said the air here felt alive — that the mountains spoke in thunder.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he loved it. Nature doesn’t flatter men like him. It tests them.”

Jack: “And when it tests you, it doesn’t care if you’re a genius or a fool.”

Jeeny: “But it remembers you if you listen.”

Host: She tilted her head back, gazing at the sky. The Milky Way hung overhead, a frozen river of light — infinite, indifferent, yet somehow personal.

Jeeny: “He wanted to harness this — the very pulse of the planet. But the world wasn’t ready. We were still too attached to smoke and oil.”

Jack: “Still are.”

Jeeny: “But it’s changing. Slowly.”

Jack: “Too slowly.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every time someone plugs into clean energy, they’re carrying a bit of his dream forward.”

Jack: “A silent rebellion against the machine.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind softened. The valley stretched wide below them, dotted with the faint lights of homes — little islands of civilization clinging to a dark sea.

Jack: “You ever think about how ridiculous it is? We built engines that choke the air we breathe, and we called it progress.”

Jeeny: “We called it power. Because it roared.”

Jack: “And Tesla wanted power that whispered.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He wanted light without smoke. Motion without harm.”

Jack: “He wanted harmony.”

Jeeny: “Which is why he failed.”

Jack: “No — which is why he endures.”

Host: A long silence followed, heavy with reflection. The kind of silence that belongs to mountains — where words feel like intrusions and thought feels sacred.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s strange. The gasoline engine changed the world, but it also chained it. It made us faster, but not freer.”

Jack: “And now we’re running from the speed we built.”

Jeeny: “That’s humanity’s pattern, isn’t it? We invent miracles, then spend centuries cleaning up their shadows.”

Jack: “Maybe the real miracle is realizing it’s time to stop burning what we love.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “That sounds like something Tesla would’ve said.”

Jack: “He did, in his own way.”

Host: The sky flickered again, thunder rolling softly from far away. The storm was coming, slow but sure — nature’s own engine, unstoppable, self-sustaining, needing no fuel but itself.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what Botta meant when he called architecture spiritual. And maybe that’s what Tesla felt about energy — that it wasn’t a tool, it was communion.”

Jack: “Exactly. The universe doesn’t run on consumption. It runs on connection.”

Jeeny: “And Tesla knew that before anyone could afford to understand it.”

Jack: “And Kimbal Musk — he’s one of the few trying to build that bridge again.”

Jeeny: “Between idealism and implementation.”

Jack: “Between what’s possible and what’s profitable.”

Host: The first drops of rain began to fall — cold, sharp, and alive. They hit the metal of the truck roof like punctuation, steady and rhythmic.

Jack: “You know, I used to think invention was about intelligence. But it’s about empathy. You can’t build for the future if you don’t care who’s going to live in it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why visionaries are rare — not because they think differently, but because they feel differently.”

Jack: “And they refuse to make peace with nonsense.”

Jeeny: “Like gasoline engines in a world full of lightning.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: They both laughed softly, and in that laughter was both grief and wonder — for the world that could’ve been, and for the one still struggling to be.

Host: The rain thickened, the wind howled, and lightning cracked across the horizon — wild, white, and perfect.

Host: And as they stood there under that storm, the mountains bearing witness, Kimbal Musk’s words felt less like nostalgia and more like a warning, an inheritance of vision still unfinished:

Host: that the future was already imagined once — by a man who believed the planet itself could power our dreams;
that progress only becomes wisdom when it stops harming what sustains it;
and that true genius is not invention, but alignment — the courage to build in harmony with the earth, not at its expense.

Host: For even now, beneath the hum of machines and the roar of engines,
the lightning waits —
patient, pure, and ready to begin again.