I handed in my final ‘homework’ today and with it the last vestiges of hope that my time spent at the AIB would be worth while.

All around me the others, who I wish I could call my friends, but can’t, were delighted and relieved. But they always seemed to be delighted about something - whether it be some pitiful excuse for a short film or a new ‘opportunity’ to work and some mindless worthless tat that they hate but ‘may lead on to other things’.

So, feeling like a complete emo I just walked away - cursing “fuck you all” to them as well as myself. No one noticed - they’re probably used to it by now, able to filter me out.

There’s something terrifying about the fact I identify much more with the Virginia Tech gunman than anyone else I know. Once I used to identify with film makers - people like David Lynch and Terry Gilliam - now I’m fairly sure I’d despise them just as much as almost every other film maker I’ve had the misfortune to meet.

Though that’s not to say I haven’t learnt anything in the last three years. Far from it. I’d argue that faced with such misery and fury I have really pushed myself to come to terms with what it is I’m not and what I do and do not like. Good mistakes worth making. A process of elimination that has help me identify systems, processes and cliches - how they all work - why I don’t work within that context and how and why people adjust themselves in order to fit in. Like an advanced class in playground mentality.

I’ve also learnt that the more money is spent on something the more people are fooled into believing it’s a good thing. That the rich really do rule the earth in all matters. That academia is a business like any other and ones work within it has an impact to the value of that business.

Shit - I feel like I’ve just spent three of the worst years of my life in the worst town at the worst college doing the worst course. And yet I’m ashamed of myself more than anyone. I’m left asking myself how I could be deluded enough not to see through it all from the start.

It’s meant to be a conversation - the two way flow of information. An idea sparking off another idea - being fed back into ones work - at worst it becomes an in joke - at best a universal truth - correct - true.

Yet I’ve not been able to have that conversation. They don’t even know my fucking name. To them I’m 10026582. My work is valueless because I have not been able to ‘evidence’ the fact I can manage the complexity of best contemporary practice demanded by rigourously applied specialist knowledge.

And unless - like last year - they can’t be bothered to fail me - I’m not even going to have that final validating bit of paper that proves I went through three years of it. i think I understand why prisoners all hate each other rather than having any sense of community. They hate being reminded of where they are and what they have been turned into.

If some keen young kid came into my prison cell these days I probably would rape the living shit out of him.

I feel so institutionalised I probably would stay another three years if they asked. Maybe I would serve as a reminder of what film makers became if they refuse to play ball.

No. I couldn’t - here’s why.

I’m going to do my best to prove to myself that they were wrong.

That in fact I do have some artistic/creative/technical ability. That one doesn’t need to be able to write business plans, proposals, and reports in order to create something of any worth - and that that worth is measured by appreciation much more than being able to convince a committee of investors.

Even if it means making shity little videos from my hospital bed/prison cell - I don’t care - this medium chose me - giving it up would be like giving up English - and no cunt or committee of cunts are going to stop me.

Fuck you all.

Oh - yeah - and if you’re hiring I still need a job - thankx