i rewatched spring breakers

I rewatched Harmony Korine's film Spring Breakers yesterday. I remembered being about thirteen when it came out, but I was wrong (looked up the release date prior to writing this), I was only about eleven -- that's kind of a startling discovery. 

At eleven, I don't think I was reading into the film's philosophy. I'm sure I thought more about the female anatomy -- whether my boobs were going to be bigger -- would my parents let me go blonde ... if so, would I look like Vanessa Hudgens? Would my boobs look like Vanessa Hudgens'? Could you die from a bong rip? Would Jesus still love me if I wore a bikini and did a bong rip? Does Jesus know that I think about girls in that way?

It's been about ten years now. I'm twenty-one. I don't think much about Jesus' opinion of me anymore; or anyone's opinion. My boobs didn't grow much; I've worn a bikini; and I did not die from weed. So I watched this film again. I was fresh off of a really bad mood. I had impulse bought some brand name junk food -- then hated myself for the lavish purchase. Argued with my best friend on the phone -- then hated myself for not pulling back. 

If you remember the time of its release, you can remember people acting like morality, tradition, and polite society will never be the same again. You can remember people saying that it's meaningless, glossy, gratuitous, evil. If you haven't seen it in a while, I highly recommend watching it again. Not cos I think you'd necessarily enjoy it or find that it's a lot smarter than it looks, but I think it will nonetheless make you feel something. 

Spring Breakers looks like a music video. And I'm not supposed to enjoy it. I'm not supposed to enjoy the dubstep music, the pornography, the lack of taste in Florida, etcetera. I'm supposed to feel nauseated when former Disney stars curse -- when the colours are unnatural and bright neon -- when a white man (who shall not be named) wears cornrows. The latter does makes me squirm. But the rest, I did enjoy. And that harboured a special type of disappointment in myself.

And I'm not a puritan, or a prude, but I've also never had a threesome, or bleach fried my hair, or robbed a diner using a squirt gun. But maybe I don't see too much difference between me and them. At eleven, I had dreams of being just as beautiful. I had dreams of getting away, claiming my free will, being without parents. I had dreams of wearing shorts that cut off halfway through my butt. At twenty-one, I haven't bleached my hair yet, but I've known what it's like to self-destruct. I've never been disillusioned to the point of robbing innocent people, but I have been numb. I have been callous with myself and others -- especially those I claim to love (and I do love -- I think). I know the thrill of stealing, indulging, hurting -- with the meaning all lost under a hazy filter. I've romanticised a nicotine addiction, turbulent relationships, shoplifting, and putting my body through hell. And in my head, like the girls in the picture, I must've only dreamt of sunny beaches and pop song lyrics. I grew up to love the synthetic American Dream : if you're detached enough from yourself and reality, you can do and have whatever you want -- it can be Spring Break forever. 

I'm a young woman broken down by the mundanity of life. I hate going to the store and having to buy milk and bread, every week, until I die. I don't like the grief I inevitably create with people. I don't like the guilt that follows after -- the reminder that I'm not good enough to end my habits, but I'm not bad enough to stop caring. I don't like that a montage of every mistake I've ever made plays in my head, along with every wistful and foolish hope -- a reminder that I'm just a girl against a bully world. Why wouldn't I -- if given the chance -- just fuck it all, wear the cutoff shorts, get the squirt gun, and let my selfish notions swallow me?

Ten years later, I still remember how it ended. Ashley Benson and Vanessa Hudgens leaving behind people they had shot dead, running towards a pitch black horizon that doesn't begin or end. And I get a pang of emptiness in my stomach, as if nothing really matters at all.