Yesterday it rained on my sign. I didn't think it was going to rain when I left the house, but then it did. I protected the sign with my umbrella, which defeated the purpose of carrying both the sign and the umbrella. But the sign didn't warp too much. The ink didn't run.

Yesterday: I carry the sign on the subway to Park Slope and don't sing because it's quiet in the car. One dowdy white woman at the center pole, wearing a long cardigan and sunglasses, flattens her upper lip and faces away. She has the sleeve of her cardigan wrapped around her hand so she doesn't touch the pole, and the tops of her feet are bulging out of her shoes. A queen at Patricia Fields once told me the term for that is "giving biscuit."

Today I am not alone in carrying a sign around town. I'm still the only one in my subway car with a sign, though, and I'm disappointed, until we hit 34th Street, and then everybody shows up. I had been looking at this woman's pants, stretch herringbone with a thin piping, wanting to ask her where she got them, when she turns to me and asks, "Is there a protest today?"

I start too high today. 1. I almost forget to take the sign with me. 2. It takes me half an avenue to realize I'm singing in an unsustainable key, breathless and whispery and warbly. I should have tuned up and found my pitch in the elevator, like I usually do, but after going away for a week, I forget how this thing is supposed to work.

Warm weather means people stop to talk longer. A lot longer. After two days of sunshine, I can already see that I have to rethink my approach to this action, or I will lose hours of my life talking to people who think my sign says, "Tell me your life story."

Three 60ish women sitting in the courtyard of a NYCHA house. I just came from my shrink, so the sign's in Safe Mode and I'm humming instead of singing. One of them calls out, "Let me see your sign!" I stop and present it, they approve.

Friends, I am extremely grateful for you, and for the support I'm getting in the comments. You are saying lovely things to/about me, and I want to try to live up to those things, insofar as I can. But I also don't want to kid anybody.

With all the rain lately, I haven't been able to channel my upset and anxiety into singing and talking to people, and it is not good.

I have not yet felt endangered while walking with the sign -- or, since I'm a woman, no more endangered than usual. People disagree with me, usually in passing, muttering as they walk by:

14th and 6th, waiting for the light to change. Scruffy, lanky white guy in his forties scoffs at my sign: "Like Hilary didn't lie? Please."