It was impossible they said. I had entered into the editing studio during my senior year of high school, with no real script, hardly any storyboards, a modicum of shot footage, and created a video that fucked up our mainstream. The style, the content, the voice, it was immoral, it was impudent, it was indecent, it was impossible, they said. The transitions, the graphics, the montages, they could not be created on the available technology. They must have been outsourced and professionally polished. But they weren’t. Impossible was nothing during my senior year. I was nine months in that A/V cell, day and night, and emerged fully formed, like a mini-Burroughs with a DIY spirit, mashing together everything I could get my thieving hands on. What I arrived at blurred the distinction between invented and borrowed. Something like a guerrilla transmission from the underground lair of the misfits. I naively set out to change the world and found out there was an infrastructure of opposition, near and wide, who wouldn’t have any of it. So instead I changed the world in me. It was called Interference. And it was my humble teenage contribution to 90s video art.