Many years ago, my wife went to her first convention. I had gone to this convention for a couple of years and encouraged her to join me and go to the costuming panels. My wife and I are both introverts, and a convention is very good at draining our reserves for dealing with people. On the last day of the con, a half day on Sunday, we were burned out and exhausted. My wife went to a “costume swap” and I went to my first Doubleclicks concert.[1]Which started at 9:30 on a Sunday morning and seemed a strange time for a concert, but that’s the way some cons roll, I guess. I bought their latest album, Dimetredon. When I got in the car to pick up my wife, knowing she was well-past done with people, I surprised her by playing the CD.
The first song on that album is “Cats and Netflix”. It was a late October or early November day, and the song was perfect for the moment. Listening to the album on the way home was at at that moment the best part of the con. The discovery of a new (to us) group, the simple honesty of the music, the sheer nerdery of the music. It was a shockingly good ride home.
Of course, the next album they released, which we purchased immediately and played, was missing something. That something was novelty.
I’ve been listening to Donald Robertson’s How to Think Like a Roman Emperor and the current chapter is about the difference between Lucius and Marcus. Marcus was the elder Stoic emperor, Lucius was the younger brother and hedonist. Listening to Robertson describe Lucius’ lifestyle growing ever more extreme, it occurred to me that the failure of a purely hedonistic lifestyle is the increasing banality. One of the things that pleasures give us is the novelty of something new. The first time you eat an extra-normal food that you end up loving will never taste as good as that first bite that made you go “oh wow”. The first time you play a game that you enjoy will never give you that thrill. Familiarity does not breed contempt so much as it lets us lie to ourselves that what we really loved about a new thing was the thing itself, and not the novelty of it.
It is possible to experience novelty on well-worn paths. There are roads I have driven hundreds, if not thousands of times, and I can still see things for the first time. Sometimes it is a new store or a new building that I had driven by for months but not noticed because my focus was elsewhere. My wife usually laughs at me when I make these discoveries. As a passenger, she knows what’s on the side of the road much better than I do.
I have taken walks through the same parks and sometimes have to stop[2]Okay, oftentimes. to catch my breath and see something that I had never seen before, a specific angle on a specific time of day at a specific time of the year, and the park suddenly looks new and beautiful again.
There are some anthems I have memorized, and I usually enjoy singing them no matter what the circumstance, a rehearsal, a service, or even just an anthem sing. As much as I try to sing to the best of my ability and sing it in the same way[3]i.e., the right way, I always sing them with a slightly different group of singers, so the anthems are in one way as comfortable as old shirt and as new as … well, my writing brain failed and cannot come up with a metaphor that doesn’t scream of cliché.
The challenge, therefore, seems to be to remember to stop every once and a while and try to see everything around me as new, not for the sake of novelty and the addiction of finding new things, but to appreciate what is around me. I should also work to remember those first times. My past should be nothing more than lessons, not rules that restrict how I live today. The first time listening to a new band should encourage me to listen to more new (to me ) bands. The sudden beauty of a familiar park should encourage me to explore drawing again. I should use novelty to keep myself from suffocating my soul with quotidian habits.