Erin Ruffin’s Weblog

“The completed work will not only be the greatest bridge in existence, but it will be the greatest engineering work of the continent, and of the age.”
—John A. Roebling, civil engineer

The Brooklyn Bridge turns 125 years old this weekend and there are a slew of celebratory events happening. Check out the Brooklyn Bridge film screenings, guided Brooklyn Bridge walking tours!!, and music/dance performances…

See the full schedule here:

Brooklyn Bridge Birthday Bash

Generally, I’m not touched by buildings and engineering (apart from the Taj Mahal because the story is so flipping romantic) … but I will admit to shedding a couple tears when I watched the documentary film on the building of the Brooklyn Bridge. What this structure stands for is so amazing – bringing communities of people together, opening up trade and commerce for New York, and the way people pulled together to build it 125 years ago is so touching. I am overwhelmed every time I walk across it.

Come celebrate its birthday this weekend!

It’s sunny today.

It’s the Friday before a 3 day weekend.

And I found my favorite song of the month.

Basia Bulat – In the Night

Listen to it….

THEN download her album and just TRY to stop yourself from dancing…just try.

Recently, I moved to Williamsburg/Bushwick and this past weekend was a near perfect Brooklyn weekend. It was one of my very favorite weekends, I think.

I found these pictures and they felt (just for a second) like a Brooklyn weekend on this Manhattan Monday. Not that I spend my weekends in rundown warehouses in Brooklyn (which is what these pictures are) but they show the old-timey Brooklyn nostalgia that drips from the streets. It’s almost like I don’t belong there. When I’m in Manhattan I feel like an ant against the size of the city. In Brooklyn it’s an age thing – it’s how new I am in contrast to the old age of the streets and buildings. I feel so young and prude there because the buildings seem so old and wise.
Lately I’ve been wondering if my resolve to fight back against the current in NYC is dissolving. This weekend I fell for the city all over again except this time it was for the city East of the river.

*In other news – my support of Obama stands strong although I must voice a concern that’s come up. My parents insist that if Obama is elected, their taxes will jump up 14%. It seems preposterous, and the rumor might be due to my parents living in a *very* Republican state, but if it’s true I’m a teense freaked out. In NYC, 14% of your income is what you use to eat, get to work, and get waxed with. SO I’m doing my research and I’ll let you know what I find. So far I have no evidence to support my parents’ claim (phew! I really don’t want to believe Obama would do such a thing!) but if we (18-35 year olds) get nailed with a massive tax increase AND continue to get screwed with student loan interest rates etc… will our faith in this government ever heal?

The mentality of New York City can be summed up in this question:
“Do you know who I think I am?”
It’s practically perfect.
It’s perfectly New York City.
This morning on the subway I stood in the corner that doesn’t have a seat and braced myself against the walls in order to avoid touching the germy poles.  My head was buried in my book and then, from out of nowhere, came a big hairy arm.  A guy standing to my right reached directly across me, through the space between my eyes and my book, to hold the pole on my left..  It wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was bizarre so for a good few seconds I stared at his hairy arm not believing anyone would seriously do this (at least without saying “excuse me”)…but he did.  Then I made eye contact with the 50-something white-haired, burly professor-looking guy and tried to make my eyes convey my thoughts, which were along the lines of “you can’t be serious.”  If you want to hold the handle that’s to the left of me, for goodness sake, stand on that side, as well.
He looked back at me and said, “Excuse me, but I’ve been riding this train for 40 years.”
So I pulled my book out from under his arm and held it OVER his arm so I could continue reading.  This did look ridiculous as it meant I was holding my book about 4” from my face, but at least I could see it and feel a little less like he was holding me in prison.
No I certainly did not know who he thought he was.
Tonight I was getting off the train in Union Square during rush hour.  The train was literally shoulder-to-shoulder and the doors were the dam holding the flow of people back.  When they opened I felt someone’s forearm across my lower back bowling me forward.  Flustered and confused I turned around to see an empty space right behind me.  My eyes dropped a little bit lower to see the top of a woman’s head just a couple inches from my back.  She was tiny and had stuck out her arm like a football player guarding a football, placed her forearm across my lower back, ducked her head and started shoving.  It was like a scrappy little sports car riding the tailwind of a semi in a storm!  The might of this tiny woman forced me to push the person in front of me.  The girl in front of me turned around to see the culprit which appeared to be ME since the tiny heaving woman was tucked into my back.  What?  This little white-haired 5’ tall woman is going to push me around AND make me look like the rude, hurried New Yorker shoving everyone forward?  Who does she think she is?  Obviously I don’t know.  But it didn’t matter because she had somewhere to go and that was that.
Neurotic New York.
When all else fails and no one seems to understand how important you are, this tactic never fails; duck your head down, ball your hands into fists, keep one stiff arm out, and keep shoving forward.

Here’s to rediscovering classics…

Once again, I have picked up the book “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” If you haven’t read it, please… This book is so simply human. It’s so refreshing and so poignant – even today. It was written almost 100 years ago and the timelessness of it is incredible – something I think a lot of artists strive for.

This is one of (many) parts that stick out to me:

On the bottom shelf stood a curly, bone-white conch shell with a delicate rosy interior. The children loved it dearly and had given it an affectionate name: Tootsy. When Francie held it to her ear, it sang of the great sea. Sometimes for the delight of his children, Johnny listened to the shell, then held it dramatically at arm’s length, looked at it meltingly and sang:

Upon the shore I found a shell.
I held it to my ear.
I listened gladly while it sang,
A sea song sweet and clear.

Later, Francie saw the sea for the first time when Johnny took them to Canarsie. The sea was remarkable only in that it sounded like the tiny sweet roar of Tootsy, the conch shell.