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I was crossing the road on my way home this week when I spotted two police officers atop police horses. I lit up. I asked the officers if I could take a picture of them and they graciously replied with a yes; they even stopped their horses for me. Beaming, I thanked them, left them to trot on and continued the walk home with renewed warmth in my heart (a real asset in cold, autumny Berlin). Later that evening I excitedly told my parents and girlfriend about my encounter with the police horses. My story, though brief, gushed with childlike wonder at such a rare sighting. My family weren’t quite as enthusiastic; my girlfriend wondered aloud whether police on bicycles might be just as effective and far more efficient, and my mom highlighted the public appeal of friendly, equine officers. Somehow I was alone in the sheer surprise and joy of it all. I maintain that had my family been there with me, they would have been just as animated. Our conversation quickly left my police horses behind, but I haven’t been able to.
My girlfriend’s idea to replace police horses with bicycles is certainly an interesting one, and my mom is right, the horses have a huge public appeal. Hundreds of people like me smile when they see the police coming; a refreshing and perhaps needed response. But that’s not why I had sparkling water in my tummy1 when I saw mounted police in my neighbourhood. I think there’s some otherworldly magic in witnessing or experiencing something that belongs to another time. There’s an immediate charm to police horses, not, perhaps, because they are simply uncommon, but because I know that they once weren’t. Were this the 18th century I imagine that finding horses walking through the city, police or otherwise, would be an everyday occurrence. I believe I wouldn’t be quite so delighted to encounter mounted police. When they make me look up from my phone in this century, though, something is awoken within me—somehow, the horses introduce an atmosphere of wonder and intrigue into my mundane routine. They are a living time machine, trotting through Berlin. I begin wondering where they come from, where they’re going. I didn’t know Berlin still had police horses, I think to myself. How many police horses are there in the city? Perhaps this reaction is simply disbelief, but that explanation feels rather cynical. I prefer to believe that these horses brought a little joy to my morning.
I think that the little flame inside of me that grows brighter when I see police horses is also enlivened when I walk through a castle or see a great film photo or listen to a vinyl record or stay in a remote cabin, warmed with a wood burning fire. In each of these things there is an aspect of rarity and otherness, but they also offer a sense of escaping the ordinary. I remember walking through the Edinburgh castle and picturing all the people who lived there, fought there, loved there. I walked up a spiral staircase and imaged how many times it had been ascended before. I was only a few hundred metres from my hostel, but I was absorbed by an alien world from an ancient time. The time gap with film photography isn’t quite as drastic, my film camera was built in the 60s and is still going strong. I really like the feeling of taking a film photo. I like that the camera doesn’t buzz or beep—it clicks. My fingertips feel the springs collapse as I release the shutter. Even though I look at digital scans of the film on my laptop, they draw me in differently than digital photos; they seem to glitter with some intangible magnetism. I suppose a shift in focus is demanded. When I’m staying at an old fashioned cabin in the forest, chopping wood for the fire that heats me, I’m forced to acknowledge the strangeness of it all. The sweat on my upper lip and the stiff tendons in my hands remind me how easily I can access heating in my apartment. It’s so easy that I hardly ever think of it. The same labour is required when listening to vinyls: after twenty minutes of music I have to get up from my desk, walk over to the other side of the room and fumble with the record player to begin the B side. Only to buy another half hour of music.
I think there is some romance in the work, the inconvenience of constantly fiddling with vinyls and chopping wood and carrying around a heavy, bulky, sixty year old camera. That said, I didn’t have to lift a finger to enjoy the presence of horses on my morning commute. So where does the magic come from? I recently heard Neil deGrasse Tyson speak on the significance of fresh flowers, and I want to steal his words. He reckons that receiving fresh roses is more meaningful than receiving plastic ones. Plastic flowers are cheaper, require less upkeep, can be kept forever. Fresh roses are entirely the opposite; costly and fleeting. But they smell wonderful, they are soft and inviting, they manage to make a house feel a little more like a home. Tyson (and I) suggests that fresh flowers are cherished because of their temporary nature, not in spite of it. Perhaps the same thing that imbues roses with their meaningfulness is active in all those things I mentioned, there is an ever present fleeting nature to them. Societies change, technology evolves, we must inevitably return from vacation. I think I find value in film photos because they feel so tangible in a digital world, a feeling that is, yes, rare, but perhaps also becoming rarer. It’s hard to find cabins that don’t come fitted with electricity and mobile signal, and I imagine escaping the modern world will be even harder in the future. If you get your hands on a vinyl or CD or cassette, you have to figure out how to play it first. The music can only be listened to for so much longer. Whether we continue to employ police horses centuries into the future or not, their presence is seemingly beautiful and fleeting. Like roses. Whether flowers or horses, my intention is gawk and giggle and rejoice in all their magic whenever I have the opportunity, knowing that they will, as all things do, eventually fade.
This phrase was coined by my girlfriend, all credit goes to her. Love it—very expressive.
I think I want many more things in my life to spark joy as those horses did. If you enjoyed this journal, please send it to someone you love.