It's the weekend after the election and we are waiting for the votes to be counted. I'm on Richmond Terrace, North Shore, taking a morning walk. I live near the ferry and like to walk to the water and just take in the view, but I always see people near the water and near the Ferry Terminal who are without shelter. Some sleep huddled together under a thin blanket with a million dollar view of Manhattan at their feet . Nearby, on the east side of the baseball stadium another couple has stashed cardboard for sleeping on - I've walked by them 20 times over the past few months. There is more cardboard stashed at the other end of the SI Yankees stadium tucked into the iron framework at the gate. Signs of living rough are everywhere. I walk around St. George a lot, and now since the pandemic, the streets are quieter. November 2020, and we're in the third surge of the pandemic, almost a year into it. There have been more than 9,500,000 cases of the virus and 230,000 deaths in the USA. If I wait until next week to write this the numbers will be 11,000,000 and 250,000. Trump failed to act, failed to lead, when he had a chance in January to tamp down the spread of the virus. Trump has spent precious hours speechifying a hatred of science and equating science with liberal politics, spreading fear through lies and this has cost lives. I am livid, but Elise says "abide."   The Staten Island ferry was always a good place for introspection, for finding a calming corner in which to be alone with your thoughts. I love the ferry and the smooth ride across the Bay to Manhattan. The foggy days are the best for daydreaming. Public space, including the ferry, is fraught with anxiety now. Many people are out of work. No more rush hour! And we're still waiting for the votes to be counted, for Trump's lawsuits to be thrown out, and for the gun-wielding white supremacists to go back into hiding. The country is changing right under our noses.   Back when the ferry and the buses and subways were crowded, I used to take pictures of other riders, often from the back because people don't want you putting a camera in their face. I especially liked to take pictures of people waiting to get off the ferry. Not sure what this moment means, but the waiting crowd always gathers momentum for the moment the boat hits the dock. The focus becomes the exit, the door that will take you ashore. The aprons descend and everyone shoves everyone else out. All ashore! I look at these pictures now and wonder how we thought it was okay to crowd each other into the front end of the boat. All I think about these days is germs. Once off the ferry, the masses of riders rushed to their designated bus. Being in transit with random other New Yorkers is a social commodity, a chance to see how streetwear is evolving, and how New Yorkers are taking street fashion to all kinds of interesting levels. Seeing how New Yorkers like to put themselves together - your city presents itself in these moments. And you can observe the mothers with babies, the family dynamics, the old folks and the teenagers. Riding public transit gives you a wealth of knowledge about your city. Anyone can acquire such wealth as this. That was then. The subway makes me nervous these days - I'm afraid to be near groups of strangers, and everyone becomes a stranger. When Biden wins, which I believe is going to be the case, will we have a responsible government again? The far right has been yelling about the Second Amendment, claiming their rights, which is their right, but not bothering to be informed about what having those rights actually means. And the pandemic doesn't give a fuck about your rights. Frightened men with large guns and weird camou gear are marching across bridges in their black and yellow insignia, waving flags and having truck rallies through towns that hate them; and later going hunting up at the cabin and shooting a large animal out in the woods with a semi-automatic rifle. A rant. I take walks early in the morning when no one else is around. I take my mask off for most of the walk and breathe in the fall air. This summer, I took walks past tiny urban gardens with blasts of colorful flowers, and large empty churches, and brightly colored houses, apartment buildings and housing projects arranged side by side. The fall brings new scents and colors to St. George. The neighborhood grows into itself more quietly now. No families sitting on stoops, no teenagers hanging around the pizza place, no cops clustering at Dunkin. Some people have left food hanging from their fence for hungry passers-by. The St. George Theater is closed. But the neighborhood itself is like a set for a play. The neighborhood is waiting for actors to populate it and waiting for an appreciative audience. Restaurants and delis are putting tables out in the street. Expectant. We are waiting for good news. I take the steep road down to the water's edge. Waiting for the votes to be counted.