What Comes After Craving

I am by no means a massive ice cream fan. Maybe once or twice a year for most of my adult life. But lately, three nights in a row, I've stopped to get a scoop of ice cream on a wafer cone from the Baskin Robbins close to my apartment. The first night, on a whim, I got a scoop of Almond Bon Bon. Then, the following night, my body guided me towards something called Shooting Star, full of bursts of popping candy. Then, a scoop of Green Tea Kitkat. I snapped a picture, I always do; it's instinct considering the long-distance nature of my relationship. You take pictures of everything, without thinking. But I also kept the slips, the order numbers now stuck to my fridge between pictures of my family and art from students, for some reason.

I walk and eat the ice cream, watching the traffic, people, and at night, the city lights. There is a lot of light pollution; it's part of reality here. Billboards loom over tiny parks. Doctor T.J. Eckleburg would have adored modern-day Korea. The flashing lights of Baseball Street and the flickering window displays of the various takeout places that line my walk home. Jarring at first, but over the years, the noise becomes the guide. How grateful I am to have found home in so many places.

There used to be a musical fountain in a mall near my childhood home. That fountain hasn’t been there for years, pollution and bureaucracy made sure of that. But I recall eating soft serve from a paper cup, sitting on concrete steps, and watching the lights illuminate the fountain, music playing in rhythm, and people milling about. There was the safety of the mall, and adults. Also no longer there. Across the lake, where the fountain danced, was ‘the park.’ It was our version of the scary place; the park where allegedly satanism happened, and worst of all, weed.

I don’t know what is really driving this craving. It could be the shifting weather or the low hum of niche ice cream content showing up on my feed from this part of the world. But I doubt it’s that simple. When your body asks for something, it’s rarely algorithmic. It’s usually a request for quiet. For ritual, texture, and taking a small piece of time for something cold and grounding, and not needing to impress anyone. I’ve avoided this kind of silence for years, the ringing of others' opinions outweighing all else. The fear of not having the right body, contorting myself into versions of me that were palatable, has led to these rituals feeling like unwarranted indulgence, like they were not deserved.

But lately, I’ve been thinking that it’s okay to indulge, from time to time. Perhaps three days in a row seems excessive, but when it comes from years of overthinking, it feels like a second. Acceptance of self and others doesn’t have to be loud, guns ablaze, or life-altering. It’s in the daily allowance of space. Stopping to taste, smell, and see. Knowing when to share, knowing who to share with. And reminding yourself that you don’t have to earn your cravings - you are entitled to flavor. And this is not just about ice cream.

Perhaps this new ice cream ritual is teaching me this, perhaps it’s exactly that. If I have been the George Wilson figure in my own life, fearing the glare of the billboard god, perhaps I’ve had my atheistic awakening. It could be the beginning of something, but not at the expense of something else. Not just a craving, but a tangible sign. A sign that tells me that I am not at war with myself in quite the same way I have been for years, and that no one else in my life is either. And that maybe, I am finally starting to feel like a person who can appreciate softness, not just fight to earn it.

This summer, Korean summer, that is, I will be going home. And for the first time, I won’t be going as just me, but also as someone who has committed to someone. The person I take pictures for without thinking, because that’s how technology helps bridge the space. My relationship with myself, my family, and with him, it’s all changed. Grown softer, perhaps. Or a little more honest. I think that’s why the ice cream matters. Because something in me has, and is, shifting. These wafer cones, the order numbers pinned to my fridge, are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But they are proof that I am showing up differently now. No longer just passing through places and time, seeing but not hearing people. But allowing myself to stay for a little while.

And who knows, maybe it’s time to press purchase on that 500ml ice cream maker that’s gathering dust at the bottom of my Coupang cart.