ON SUNDAY AT THE AGNES MARTIN EXHIBIT at the Guggenheim my middle daughter had a cynical post-election Hillary pin on and a long face--still. She's that way. A die-hard for Hillary. She wasn't even sure she'd be up for the museum, much as she wanted to see my sister in from out of town. Inside the Guggenheim I noticed her on her own looking closely at the art. She was deep into it, like she can be. I don't know what it said to her, but it certainly spoke to her. I could see that.

Today I met a friend in from Cleveland for breakfast near Lincoln Center. I happened to pass by a Trump building a few blocks from there. It was cordoned off. I always hated the look of his buidlings. I'm not just saying that now. It was good to get to Lincoln Center and all the impressive, artful buildngs there.

Art will save us now, if we let it. But we have to go to it.

NOT EVERYBODY GETS THE SIGN. Some don’t want to. You can see it on their faces. Who are you to be holding that sign? We don’t need you to tell us. Don’t remind us.

Maurice gets it. Gets it as much anyone maybe. He stopped yesterday. Skinny black guy. Probably not my age. Silk baseball jacket on. Matching baseball cap. Both with the logo of the security company he works for. He was heading to work. He tapped my sign right in the center to let me know that the message was at the core of what’s needed. He said that the young kids do wild things because they’re frustrated. He said frustration is the root of all the problems. He tapped the sign again and said that would keep them from being so frustrated. He re-emphasized that notion, and said the sign was a good thing, keep up the fight. And headed off to work. 

Then he turned and came back and fist bumped me, asked me my name and told me his.

I HAVE AN ALMOST-50-YEAR-OLD LONDON FOG LIGHT-TAN RAINCOAT that my mother sent me money to buy in the campus store in South Bend, Indiana that I wear when it’s just sprinkling and I want to hold my sign to show the people it matters more than enough--as in, I think it could change the world--to get a little wet. Part of my street cred with the sign comes from my consistency. ‘Man, you’re here every day.’

It was raining too hard though today. Not too hard for me. I’ve got that raincoat and a couple different baseball caps I could wear. But the sign could get ruined if it’s sopping rain.

I never want to miss a day, which is a pretty powerful sign of its own. Today especially I wanted to be there, to stand as mindfully as I could for Gwen Ifill.

THIS MORNING THERE WAS A BIG DELIVERY TRUCK parked with one leg up on the sidewalk right by where I stand with my sign. When that happens—and it’s happened more than a few times—I think I’m just adding to the narrowing of the sidewalk space for people heading to work or school. I think about going home. I think about going to the diner for breakfast lately. Since the election, I think about eggs and toast and, hash browns and ketchup a lot. The hash browns mostly. I must crave some comfort from the warmth and texture. After 9/11 I found myself craving Jameson Irish whiskey. I’d go up to a bar near me in the East Village every night that first week and order a shot of Jameson with my first pint, which was not the normal schedule. Sometimes two shots. A couple weeks later I read somewhere that bars noticed how many more shots they poured after 9/11.

I stayed my hour today. The truck was there the whole time. I’m glad I stayed. I sense from the faces, that since Wednesday, the sign is maybe some people’s Jameson, some people’s warm breakfast.