This is what I know about sex, there is a hole, there is a stick, and it all works out in the end, and occasionally “in the end,” if you know what I mean. And duh, sometimes two sticks and/or two holes can get along just fine, I went to college. The idea of penetration can only exist because we feel outside of things, but what if we are put inside, a gopher hole maybe, or in a gallery peaking into a room made to make us feel inside a hole. What if aesthetics is humanity’s commercial, something to seem better than it is. Duchamp’s cunt is shaved because Courbet’s used up all the hair. We all know about the male gaze, but the gopher gaze didn’t get a thesis written about it, until now, well not exactly.

I watched the clitectomy scene in Antichrist with a squinted eye through the slit between my index and middle finger, the hey you and fuck you fingers. When she grabbed the scissors, my castration complex kicked in, and I paused the film which was streaming on Netflix, opened a new tab, and wikied the plot, scanning the arial 10pt. for “penis” preceded by the word “cut” or “off”; fortunately — and Freudians n’ Feminists, this is probably too easy — that wasn’t the case. Desire was evil, that nob that never grew into a penis, so she rid of that via the cinematic slow motion blood squirt of a fleshy pearl losing its focus in its assault towards the camera.

Which reminds me of my favorite porn blopper, popularized into an animated .gif, of a camera man’s spastic reaction upon receiving a wad of spunk to the face intended for the female protagonist of the scene. Bukkake is entropy of disorganized procreation, duh. Had it hit the camera lens, we might be talking metajizm.

I am awful. I watch films while wiki-ing them, as I’m in the “context over content” camp. I want to know when it was done, who did it, why, what people said, etc. — because I don’t trust myself enough to just watch things. The last palpable experience I had was the flu, and that didn’t work out too well. The opening prologue was goose bump inducing lovely, but oddly reminded me of a De Beers diamond ring commercial. Lovers in black and white are fated to either get married or kill each other. I doubt Lars von Trier was purposely evoking Duchamp’s “Étant donnés” (1966), and that my screenshot juxtaposition is somewhat manipulative, but the two gentlemen of this sentence, as true artists, are exactly that. About the gopher, which is apparently us, get enough mist and twigs and running water and the girl is dead. Just ask Hamlet, or Dale Cooper.

Wiki says the genital scenes in Antichrist were performed by porn actor body doubles; and there I thought I had finally seen Willem Dafoe’s balls, the slow motion pendulum gracing the lazy arc of thump thump. It felt less real somehow, because that is sex’s main clerical function, to verify an incident, to collapse the endless horizon of someone across the table, the splitting of atoms into a bomb-like puff that happens in miniature inside the movie screen of someone’s eyes, that sack of lake, inside which the comer sees its reflection.

I am awful. After the film, I scrolled back to the ball swinging scene, and closed my eyes as Dafoe. People who masturbate to film and literature should get honorary PhDs. This world needs more beauty that is immune to post-thefuckturalism. Bitch turned into the Antichrist, fyi. They burned her with the steak. It takes 2 weeks to remember a novel, and only 2 hours to remember a film. Vision is a cheerleader, a dumb one. I like pausing at beautiful moments and taking a screenshot. The contemporary still life is the still. When I crawled out of my burrow I saw my shadow on the wall, emitted by the monitor’s light. I think that means six more weeks of hell.