Reflection

Home /
Categories /
Reflection

Part II: Food for Profit

Part II: Food for Profit – How Corporations Engineered Hunger in a World of Plenty In a world of unprecedented agricultural abundance, I am sure that I am not the only one who is struck by the cruel paradox that billions still go hungry, while others are dying from diseases of overconsumption. This situation—scarcity amid plenty, malnutrition amid surplus—is no accident. I believe it is the calculated outcome of a food system built not to feed people, but to feed profits.

Part I: The Legal Lie

Part I: The Legal Lie How Corporate Personhood Slowly Broke the World I’ve always held a firm belief that in a democracy, we, the people, are supposed to be in charge. Yet, over the last 150 years, we’ve mostly missed a silent coup unfold—one that has steadily replaced the citizen with the shareholder, the voter with the lobbyist, and the human being with a legal fiction: the corporation as a person.

Investing in Outcomes

We have journeyed from the personal story behind GrowGood to the way its Blueprints learn to speak the language of your farm. Now, we arrive at the most crucial part of our conversation: the future we can grow together. This is a vision that extends beyond the farm gate, connecting our individual efforts into a powerful, collective force for regeneration. This isn’t just about building a better tool. It’s about building the infrastructure for a new kind of economy—an economy that invests in outcomes, not just outputs.

Speaking the Language of the Land

In our first conversation, we talked about the need to re-value farming—to move beyond tools of extraction and build something that honours the complexity of living systems. Now, let’s explore how we begin to do that. It starts by learning to speak the language of the land, one farm at a time. For too long, technology has demanded that farmers adapt to its rigid logic. The world of regenerative agriculture is diverse and dynamic—a market gardener thinks in beds and successions, a flower farmer in stems and bloom cycles, and a grazier in paddocks and pasture recovery times. Forcing them into a single, generic mould is not just inefficient; it’s an act of erasure. It silences the unique story of their farm.

Re-Valuing Our Roots

For most of my life, I’ve had one foot in the soil and the other in the digital world. It has been a journey of homecoming, a return to the values I learned growing up on a farm, looking after the land that sustained us. This journey has been guided by a single, persistent question: how can we build tools that honour nature’s complexity, instead of trying to conquer it?

The Intelligence in the Jar

If you’ve ever stood over a jar of fermenting vegetables — watching bubbles rise, catching that sharp, tangy scent — you’re witnessing something extraordinary: an invisible ecosystem, busy at work. It’s easy to think of fermentation as chemistry, but really, it’s ecology — a dance of bacteria, yeasts, enzymes, and time. And when we ferment, we’re not the masters of this process. We’re the collaborators. The Microbial Majority For all our human cleverness, we’re a minority species. Microbes were here first, and they quietly run the planet — decomposing, recycling, fermenting, digesting, transforming.

Microbial Lessons for a Living Planet

When we begin to see fermentation not as a human trick but as a conversation between species, something shifts. The jar on the counter becomes a small model of the world — alive, adaptive, and full of intelligence that isn’t our own. These microbial communities show us, in miniature, how life sustains itself through cooperation, balance, and exchange. And if we pay attention, the lessons in that bubbling jar start to sound much larger — lessons not just about food, but about how to live well on a living planet.

From Varieties to Commodities

Have you noticed how “choice” in the supermarket doesn’t really feel like choice anymore? A whole aisle of bread, yet most of it made from the same kind of wheat. Apples that all look perfect, but taste mostly of cold storage. Tomatoes that travel halfway around the world but somehow forgot what flavour is. Somewhere along the way, our food system got… simplified. Not for our benefit, but for the benefit of the system itself — the trucks, the supply chains, the supermarkets, the spreadsheets.

From Healthier Soil To A Fairer Fork

Let’s be honest. The way we produce and consume food is broken. It’s a system that looks great on the surface, with supermarket shelves overflowing with produce from every corner of the globe, available any time of year. But when you dig a little deeper, you find a system built on a house of cards, and it’s costing us more than we think. Our industrial food system is a master of illusion. It presents abundance while creating scarcity—scarcity of nutrients in our food, of biodiversity in our fields, of topsoil on our farms, and of fairness for the people who grow it. It’s a system built on an extractive model, where value is pulled from the land, from communities, and from our own bodies, with little thought for the long-term consequences.

Fermentation as a Revolutionary Act

What if one of the quietest ways to resist our broken food system is simply… to let food sit? To watch it bubble, fizz, and transform — guided not by factories or corporations, but by microbes, time, and our own hands? Fermentation looks humble — a jar on the counter, a cabbage in salt, a whiff of something alive. But hidden in that jar is something radical: a way of reclaiming control, rebuilding community, and slowing down a world that’s moving too fast for its own good.

Part 4: A Cooperative Future for Public LoRaWAN

The dream of a global, public LoRaWAN network is a powerful one. While private LoRaWAN networks thrive for specific industrial and agricultural applications, the vision of a ubiquitous, low-cost network for tracking, sensing, and connecting the physical world remains just out of reach. We’ve seen two major attempts to build this future, each a fork in the road leading to a dead end. First came The Things Network (TTN), a noble, grassroots effort built on altruism. It did an admirable job, proving the power of a community-built network. But without a sustainable incentive model, it relied on the goodwill of gateway operators, a foundation that proved too fragile for global scale.

Part 3: From Degenerative to Regenerative

The Principles Are Sound After dissecting the broken models of the DePIN space, it would be easy to become cynical and dismiss the entire concept as a failed experiment. But that would be a mistake. The foundational principles of DePIN—of community-owned infrastructure, aligned incentives, and open access—are more powerful and necessary than ever. The failure is not in the vision; it is in the execution. The degenerative patterns I’ve observed are not inevitable. They are choices. They are the choices that lead down a path of techno-feudalism, where technology is used to centralise power, enforce scarcity, and ultimately render communities into surplus populations. It is time to choose a different path.

Part 2: DePIN's Fork in the Road

A Pattern Emerges The story of Helium, as I detailed in my first post, is not an anomaly. The slide from a grand vision of a “People’s Network” into a centrally-controlled system that primarily benefits its founders and a small handful of insiders is, unfortunately, a well-trodden path in the DePIN space. The issues of opaque governance, extractive tokenomics, and a disregard for the actual community that builds the network are not bugs; they are features of a flawed and deeply ingrained model.

Part 1: The Reality of DePIN

The Seductive Pitch The term DePIN, or Decentralised Physical Infrastructure Networks, carries an almost utopian promise. It paints a picture of a world where the essential physical networks we rely on—from wireless and mobile connectivity to mapping and sensor data—are built not by faceless corporations, but by us. It’s a vision of grassroots collaboration, where individuals are empowered to deploy hardware, share resources, and collectively own the infrastructure of tomorrow.

A New Charter for the Forest

Back in 1217, a group of rebellious barons forced King John to sign the Charter of the Forest. It was a revolutionary document for its time, a declaration that the forests of England were not the private hunting grounds of the king, but a vital resource for the common people. It protected their rights to graze their animals, collect firewood, and forage for food. It was, in essence, a charter for a forest commons.

The Contemplative Spirit

In the quiet hum of a working still, something more than alcohol is being produced. As the hours pass and the slow transformation from raw matter to refined essence unfolds, the distiller is offered a unique invitation: to be present, to pay attention, and to find a deeper meaning in the making. The previous articles in this series have explored the slowness, resourcefulness, and elemental connection inherent in distilling. We now arrive at the heart of the matter: the still as a mirror for the self, and the craft as a contemplative practice.

The Elemental Connection

In our modern lives, insulated by technology and concrete, it is easy to feel disconnected from the elemental forces that shape our world. We forget the soil that feeds us, the water that sustains us, and the fire that warms us. Yet, certain ancient crafts serve as a bridge, pulling us back into a direct and intimate dialogue with nature. Distillation, at its heart, is one such practice. It is more than a simple technique; it is a collaboration with the elements, a process where earth, water, fire, and air are consciously brought together to transform and purify. To stand before a still is to stand at the intersection of human craft and natural magic.

The Alchemy of Slowness

There is a peculiar magic in slowing down. In a world that measures life in minutes, notifications, and deadlines, the deliberate act of slowing is a radical one. And yet, it is in this deceleration that we discover the quiet, transformative rhythms connecting us to nature, to craft, and to ourselves. Distillation, in its truest and oldest sense, is one such rhythm — a slow, contemplative alchemy that has existed for centuries, long before the cocktail culture or industrial spirits of today. It is not about the drink, nor about the intoxication; it is about transformation, attention, and the delicate unfolding of time.