I woke up at four in the morning to a car alarm. How is this always happening? It doesn’t seem to be that people are breaking into each other’s cars at all hours. It seems to be that cars, on occasion, can’t hold it in anymore and need to release a primal scream, and who can blame them for that?
It’s always bright here, always smoggy, always congested– gridlocked! The word itself hurts to think! It’s like being on the inside of a human head, exploding with a migraine: there you sit, behind the eyes, where the pain is, while the brain throws sandbags and acid and fire-pokers at you. Buildings tower overhead. Trees are confined to tree-enclosures. Only to be interrupted by parks— everyone loves the parks. Of course they do! Have you noticed that everyone’s favorite places in the city come with the glowing endorsement that “you’ll completely forget where you are” and “you’d never expect a place like this here” and “you won’t even know you’re in the city”?
But then, of course, I like being in the city: my friends are here, and so is everything else! I like being close to people, museums, theater. I like the bars and places to go dancing. Every band comes to town. I like the access: on every corner, the possibility of a bagel, a ski-mask, an aspirin, the oldest cat you’ve ever seen. There is forward momentum, the spirit of constant innovation. And it is in that spirit that I tell you that it could be made better, immediately and exponentially, by one small swap. It is in that spirit that I propose to you that adding another encounter with a living thing to your routine will improve it. It is in that spirit that I tell you that a horse wouldn’t blare an alarm at four in the morning: she would be asleep, and so would you.
Let’s not dream small. Let’s not settle for small, incremental adjustments. Let’s replace all the cars with horses, and let’s do it right now.
The roads will have become plodded with soft dirt, filling the city with a scent that is sweet and wet. Once, we’ll recall, they made these roads broader and broader to accommodate the obscene volume of cars. The streets were as malnourished arteries, clogged with machinery; now, they could hardly be called “streets” at all. They meander, and trees have cropped up everywhere. The storefronts go: bodega, blacksmith, pharmacy, feed shop, each with a post and a trough out front. Places you’re likely to stay in longer (restaurants, theaters, museums) have spacious corrals out back.
Outside, the chatter has departed the realm of road-rage. Gone are the days of “nice driving, asshole,” and “are you out of your fucking mind?” and “hooooooooonk”. These are the days of “can I pet your horse?” and “NO, Rusty, don’t eat that!” and “wooooaaaaah”. Parents with babies strapped to their bodies go lumbering by. When the kids get older, perhaps they’ll get a cart. At night, from your bed, you can hear the occasional splendid clacking of a late-night’s journey home.
“There are horses in New York,” someone terrible is saying, “in Central Park, pulling carriages!” Sorry, but no. Those horses are foully mistreated. In order for this to work, we have to agree to treat the horses well, as living things should be, and agree not to involve them in nasty things like SightSeeing or Capitalism. In fact, I know this will be the case, because by having giant, living things to act as our companions as well as vehicles that connect us with our environment, we develop a higher regard for all living things. It’s been discovered that when we spend more time with horses in particular, we develop better connection skills, sharpen our ability to respect boundaries, and feel more positive emotions. Horse therapy is already an option for people who struggle with depression! We can only be helped by this change.
And as for you, reader, your social life has become Exciting! My social life already is exciting, you might say, but you have no idea. I’m talking capital E. Italics. Exclamation point!
Friday night, for instance: you go out to a bar with friends. You’re coming from Bushwick, Ridgewood, Crown Heights– the bar is in BedStuy. As you and I know, public transit won’t help you commute across Brooklyn. The train doesn’t run like that and the bus does not come. No matter: you slip some gloves on your hands and tack up your horse. You’re there in a fifteen minute canter, max. You know your friends are inside because you recognize their horses outside. You scratch their velveteen noses and feel the warmth of their breath. Your horses are all friends with each other, and winnie a salutation. Your horse joins the others in a corral with a trough, and for your part, you go into the bar and get a drink (the human version of a corral with a trough! you now realize). At the bar, there are bowls of complimentary sugar cubes, a handful of which you pocket for later. You join your friends at a booth. Outside the window, you can see your horses rolling in the dirt, trilling their lips lovingly at one another. Someone suggests a midnight movie; dancing; a romp in the park; a game of polo. Why not? Why not??? You’re so young!!
When you come home in the evenings, you pick your horse’s hooves clean of the day’s collection of mud and take a wiry brush to her coat. You freshen her supply of sweet-smelling hay and kiss her perfect wiggly nose. Goodnight, you tell her, and she flicks her ears in reply.
If you were to wake up at four in the morning for whatever reason, you would not see a smattering of stars cloaked in dirty air from a pipe; they would peek through the sugar maples, and there would be millions. You would not hear the screech of tires, the fury of horns; if you held your breath, you might hear the quiet cacophony of massive horse hearts beating in their sleep.
i would pay serious money to live in Horse New York
my horse would be name Big Lids and I'd only feed him cold brew and lucky charms