I was emailing yesterday with a friend in Tel Aviv, who was marveling from afar at the dysfunction and insanity here in the US – the lack of testing, the absence of presidential leadership on any meaningful forward-going plan, the reckless crowds of protesters, the handful of states deciding to open back up even as their COVID numbers continue to climb.

As I pointed out to him, this has been a fascinating experiment in federalism, with states taking wildly different approaches to handling it all. But though I’m grateful for the institutional competency here in New York (and in California, where my parents live), it’s also becoming increasingly clear that, without some kind of more centralized response, even the best-managed states face serious problems of leverage and coordination.

So I’ve been particularly fascinated by consortiums of states – one of the three states on the west coast, two more of seven each in the Northeast and Midwest – banding together as sort of nations of their own. At this point, though it already feels like we’ve been living in this new COVID reality forever, we’re still in early days. And, I suspect, the varying responses across states (or groups of them) will play out with increasingly disparate results over the months and years ahead.

Previously, whenever I’d read a book like The Handmaid’s Tale, built around a vision of a fractured US, broken apart into a handful of new nations – some scientifically modern and democratic, others backwards–looking theocratic autocracies – it always seemed rather far-fetched. How, exactly, would we get from our current world to that sort of dystopia? But, as of now, it seems like a distressingly much shorter leap.

I was early in sounding the Coronavirus alarm, in social distancing, in wearing a mask outside, etc. So perhaps it’s fitting that I also feel ahead of the curve in worrying about what comes next. Alongside more productive work, I’ve been reading a ton on that front over the past few weeks. And while the deep dive has been fascinating, you can save hours of your life by just skimming this Ezra Klein article summarizing the best paths forward for booting back up our country.

Concerningly, we don’t seem to be moving towards any of those solutions. Indeed, we don’t really seem to be doing anything at all, aside from hunkering down, flattening the proverbial curve, and waiting.

But while social distancing is a crucial preparatory step for any decent solution, it’s not a solution in and of itself. It buys time, but that only helps if we use that time to make progress towards some subsequent steps, whether hugely ramped up testing, technology-assisted contact tracing, or whatever else. In the absence of any of those, we can stay home for months, but the pandemic is likely to come roaring back whenever we finally emerge.

In the absence of Federal leadership, private companies are stepping up, and various localities seem to be trying to piece together solutions of their own. But it’s hard to imagine any of those working without the reach, resources, and scale of a national, government-led push. At this point, I see zero sign of that happening, and I don’t have much hope that’s about to change anytime soon.

So, while I’m not sure how long this is all going to last, nor do I have any clear sense of what’s coming next, I’m not feeling optimistic, even if case numbers seem to be plausibly plateauing. I’m making life plans around the assumption that we’ll be in some degree of Coronavirus disaster for at least the next year. Buckle up.

I was due for a haircut at the end of February, just as I was starting to worry about the possibility of a COVID-19 pandemic.  At that point, barbershops (like everything else) were still open.  But as I was ahead of the curve on worry – and therefore also on social distancing – I decided to exercise an abundance of caution, and held off.

By now, however, I’m starting to wonder about the wisdom of that choice.  Just a few weeks in, and I’m already looking pretty feral.  Jess has volunteered her help – she’s said she’d even be willing to watch a couple of YouTube videos on technique before coming at me with the clippers.  Though, with apologies to her, in this case, I think the cure really might be worse than the disease.

I’d consider just buzzing it all off, but I did that unintentionally about 18 months ago (I thought the barber was asking how long I wanted the sides, he thought he was asking how long I wanted the top, and it turns out a ‘two’ is a pretty close cut), and it took long enough to grow back that I’d rather skip the option if possible.

So, for the moment, I’m just rolling with it.  Even if I’ve now reached a phase where, despite increased length, my hair mostly sticks straight up in the air, giving me a definite Jimmy Neutron vibe.

Or, at least, it would be, if I weren’t ruining the look with an increasingly heavy beard.  I’d say it was sort of a ‘Jimmy Neutron of the Mountains.’  But, as I’m disappointed to discover each time I grow one out, a month of beard on me says less ‘rugged,’ and more ‘rabbinical.’

These are tough times indeed.

A few years back, while we were all visiting the New York Botanical Garden up in the Bronx, my mother bought Jess a small, creeping, cactus-like succulent.  Jess named him Tiny Tim, and placed him next to Moe, our thriving Jade plant (who had likely grown lonely, since the deaths of his two previously adjacent plants, Larry and Curly), on the window sill.

Since then, presumably under Moe’s leadership, Tim continued to grow, and grow.  Not just his initial main stalk, but also about a dozen tinier Tims, who sprouted up where his leaves fell.  Until it was pretty clear that all the Tims had completely outgrown their small planter.

Fortunately, we already had a couple of larger, unused ones in the cupboard (cf., Larry, Curly), as well as some succulent potting soil stowed under the sink.  So, last week, as a quarantine home improvement project, we replanted Tim into a much, much larger home.

Replanting can be stressful for plants (it’s called transplant shock).  So, after repotting, I kicked off each morning by giving Tim a pep talk.  Which, in turn, inspired Jess to serve up some musical encouragement; ever since, she’s been playing this Music for Plants playlist for him pretty much every single day.

Honestly, I’m not sure how Tim (or, for that matter, Moe) feels about it; they’re both more of the silent type.  But Jess and I, at least. seem to be finding it pretty calming.  So, whether or not you are a plant, or even have any plants, if you’re looking for some soothing sounds to carry you through these shocking times, check it out.

Was digging through folders on my Mac this week, and stumbled across a long paper I wrote at Yale, back in 2001, on the cognitive science of music – and, particularly, on what makes music sound good. 

It appears I’d forgotten pretty much everything I once knew when I was writing the paper, so it was a fun and fascinating read for the current me.  In case you have too much free time on your hands, and similar interests, the whole thing is below. 

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“It is night and the vacant cavern is dim, chilly, still.  A few animals have arrived before the others, bustling about the immense expanse beneath the cavern roof sixty feet above.  From time to time a cry echoes through the chamber and the flurry of activity increases.  And then, all at once, a herd of two thousand shuffles in.

It is a highly territorial species and each animal seeks out its rightful station in the cavern.  Those of highest status roost farthest in; others withdraw to murky alcoves.   Outside, they had cooed and preened, dominated and submitted, but all that is finished now.  It is time to nest.

The cavern visitors are a species of tool users, and when a group of a hundred more enter – individuals with distinctive black and white coloration – they carry oddly shaped wooden boxes and metal tubes to the front of the chamber, where they sit together.  Abruptly, the dominant male struts in, climbs to a position above all the others, and performs a triumph display.  His arrival is greeted by much hooting and clatter… The dominant male suddenly commences an elaborate display, swinging his forelimbs to and fro.  It has begun.

Sound.  Glorious sound.  Sound of a kind little encountered outside the cavern, each tone a choir in itself, pure and enduring.  Patterns ascend to gyrate in midair, then fold into themselves and melt away as even grander designs soar… first it conveys circumspect pleasure.  Then delight.  Then amazement.  Then elation.  For something is emerging from the patterns, something between the tones that is unheard yet is substantial as any sound.  Voices hurl together; bass tones rise above a furious sweep of treble; the sound lowers its horns and charges.  Deep within, there’s a tightening, a verging, a sensation of release from gravity’s pull.  Ecstasy.” (Jourdain, 1996)

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