The two stilettos are clocking upstairs in the ceiling like this: clock clock clock out through the softly slamming door down the hallway to the stairs, stepping down with a clocking rhythm that echoes in the hallway of fake polished stone. From ceiling to hallway to stairwell the stilettos clock and clock and sometimes when she comes home I can even hear her take them off. Clocks turn to clacks in her room’s little lobby and then the usual silence of muffled televisions and engines roaring distantly and maybe some talk outside with all the vowels stretched to breaking point. A language with singsong qualities. But televisions are everywhere in Korea. Soon they’ll start coating the glass and the green sidewalks and the plastic tenements with a quicksilver that receives television signals, daubing their palms and their cheeks so they can watch on the subway or in the mirror, making the country into a giant television you can even watch from outer space.
Stilettos and Televisions