The track’s distance markers are all in place: the fascist uncle laughing club shouting national pride slogans while leering at her, the neighbourhood wives ambling along in large groups shouting to be heard over the blaring devotional music on their phones, workers attempting their weekly repair of the park’s mysteriously smashed surveillance cams. A few stretches, and she’s off along the jogging track, keeping a wary eye out for battling stray dogs and monkeys lurking in the trees. Instead, she goes through her fitness checklist: headphones in place, cooling sportswear hopefully working as much as possible in Delhi, smog/plague maxmask already making her face sweat, water bottle and pepper spray in the right slots on her smartbelt. Even the idea is tiring, and she considers going straight to her parents’ house it’s already hot enough to make her eyes twitch.
A classic training sequence, where she builds an incredible body through first failing and then succeeding at the same task, intercut with determined running, some weights, an optional animal sidekick, rounded off with a motivational hope-hop soundtrack. She’s always taken pride in her instinct for cuts and angles and rhythms in the wildly successful stories she produces-one day, one perfect day, her life will be just as award-worthy.Īs she heads into the park near her parents’ house for her regular Sunday-morning run-actually the first in three months, but she’s finally managed to wake up early this time it’s usually way too hot to be outside the house by the time she reaches Little Bengal for her weekly visit-she finds herself idly building another montage in her mind. As a professional image builder and storyteller, she finds the lack of structure even more offensive than the banality of the material. Sometimes Joey feels like her whole life is a montage of randomly selected, algorithm-controlled surveillance cam clips, mostly of her looking at screens or sitting glazed-eyed at meetings.
0 kommentar(er)
