Sasha Francis on RV Sanchez: decomposition in PARADISE

Sasha Francis

The cross-pollination series continues in 2018, with a number of creative and written responses to festival performances.  Our second piece is written by Sasha Francis, writing curator for PAWA 2018.  Sasha recently completed her Master’s thesis in Sociology.  Her work weaves together relationality, political activism and speculative materialism. In this piece, she responds to RV Sanchez’s PARADISE, performed during Opening Night on Wednesday 14th November via Skype connection.

decomposition in PARA DISE

A desked body
offers itself as a wager that breathing will always find its way through the things that never decompose.

This is a difficult conversation across borders because sovereign laws keep us territorialised,
close around us like a fleshy boundary that refracts as information, the husky glimmer of possibility.

Bunkered together underground, we watch fingers grasp through time and space at those ubiquitous fast foodstuffs that have deterritorialised themselves:
french fries, burger bun, take away food, doughnut, tomato sauce, plastic bag, human face.

The liquidity of a rendered body, for the things we carry are no longer heavy in our pockets,
the stupidity of a plastic fork, dulled as a weapon, a thing to be thrown away.

These frozen images are an accidental commentary our own foreclosed inability to move beyond, our trying, our passive waiting for reconnection because of the circumstance;
this inbetween is a two-way dependency, the tenacious familiarity of a humorous mouth.

The break down of food outside of the body is everything we do not want to see,
‘Oh my god’ as lips catch on our own revulsion – the violent, offensive denigration of decomposition made grotesque.

What we know are consumption cycles that refuse compostability, remove themselves at the very start from the possibility of an inside,
our epistemology is secularised repetition.

In between hands, a glazed carbohydrate: those things to be cut from our diet, a beacon of dreams turned sour, police platitudes and state sanctioned violence: you grab scissors, snip at your pubic hairs, you are wearing no pants,
XXX at its most violated, at its most corporeal.

These are things reminiscent of a world we’d rather not see so you walk away, move again,
and here there is no food: just the consumption of our own waste, of our own body, smashed up shit gaining its own complexity.

The profanity of the violation of the human mouth;
The profanity of the violation of our mother earth whose name we have forgotten.

Chew, spit, chew, spit, chew, spit.
And then you chew and do not spit.  Is the beginning of the process the most violent step of all?

A glass window, a frame, your face, a heaving, the insanity of these/our rhythmic movements,
You offer us a baptism in tomato sauce:


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