Quite some time back I reflected on why I liked making films and I realised that the reason was somewhat more sinister than I had suspected. I had been moved by art, by films, by stories since I was young. In fact, I often remark that my love of the arts saved me from a life of humdrum boredom and meaninglessness. It kept me curious, engaged and active. I liked making things, creating things, thinking about ideas. When I discovered media in Year 11 and 12, I was hooked. I didn’t understand filmmaking as a craft, I didn’t have time for story, I just wanted to make and create, plan and do. I had a relentless desire to tell experimental stories – an unconscious urge to grapple with the darkness of my past, that I was completely amnesic to. And so when it hit me one day, many years later, as an adult, a somewhat failed filmmaker, as to why it never really turned out the way that I had dreamed it would, in my drunken haze, it was hard to face and this is the first time I have ever really written about it. You see, they would film me. Naked and stuff. Doing things, with other small children. And so for me to get behind the camera and control it, to produce the images, meant in some way that I was in control, they weren’t. And so of course I have not known what stories to tell, who I am, what type of producer I am, because they split me and exposed me and shamed me and all I have really wanted to do is find me, to know the truth. Someone told a quote today, the said “the atmosphere of the team gets sucked in and projected through the camera”. And they created sickness and evil and it got projected for years and years and years. It makes me sad.