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Being an archipelago, powering Hawaii's energy grid is a notable economic and technological challenge. As local resources and infrastructures for electricity production are limited, the state consumes nearly 7x more energy that it produces (EIA 2023). Much of Hawaii's power plants are powered by different forms of imported petroleum (including 76.4 Btu of jet fuel! (EIA 2023)), which makes up about 4/5 of the state's energy resource mix (EIA 2023). While they are comparatively easy to ship, these fuels are also much more expensive than other fossil fuels (such as natural gas or coal), which power many of the grids in the continental US. As a result, Hawaii has the highest retail price of electricity of any state in the US, at about 3x the national average price (EIA 2023). Another of Hawaii's energy disadvantages is that each island is run as a separate electricity grid, with no undersea electricity transmission cables. This means that, for grid security reasons, each separate island has to produce a surplus of energy (what's called an energy reserve margin target) to ensure grid reliability against unpredictable factors (such as a sudden operation failure of a power plant coinciding with an upswing in energy demand). For comparison, Hawaii Electric, which powers about 95% of the state's electricity (EIA 2023), set's its energy reserve margin at 30% (Hawaii Electric 2021), while most grids in the contiguous US shoot for a reserve margin of about 15%-20% (Energy Knowledge Base ND). 

That said, due in part to these stringent techno-economic challenges, Hawaii has also pushed quite strongly for the state's transition to renewable energy. Hawaii has set the date for 100% renewable energy to 2045, the earliest target date for this transition in the US. Oahu and Maui hit 34.5% renewable energy in 2021, surpassing the goal to hit 30% by 2020 (Oglesby 2021). A smaller electric coop reported that its energy mix achieved a whopping 60% renewables in 2020 (Oglesby 2021). Interestingly, rooftop solar (which is often seen as a less practical/less significant strategy for achieving renewable energy transition) made up the highest source of renewable energy (EIA 2023).

While these facts show promise for a cleaner and more sustainable and energy-independent energy system in Hawaii, these energy transition efforts have also posed new sociotechnical and ethical challenges of their own. Back n 2022,  the Hawaii State Senate passed a renewable energy bill that threatened to severely limit the state's ability to plan and implement a "just transition" to renewable energy. Rehashing many of the arguments against renewable energy in the contiguous US, the bill cited the "intermittency" of solar and wind power as a threat to grid security and thus proposed a policy that would require the state to produce at least 1/3 of its power from more "firm" renewable resources that can produce energy around the clock (i.e. hydroelectric dams, geothermal, and also biomass, renewable biodiesel, and renewable natural gas). While technically renewable, many of these so called "firm" sources continue to emit GHGs and other harmful pollutants that threaten the climate, ecosystems, and public health (Kane 2022). Others, like the hydro electric project in Kauai, continue to threaten the fishing and agricultural operations that many residents rely on for their own staples or for growing cash crops to produce their income (Lyte 2023). Using plantation-era ditch systems, Kauai's hydro project planned to divert an estimated 4 billion gallons of water from the Waimea River watershed, which would all but dry up the river's numerous braided streams upon which many residents depend. As Brittany Lyte notes in her article covering the issue (2023), this plantation-era practice reproduces the cultural and ecological destruction native Hawaiians have been facing and fighting against for over a century.

While activists continue to struggle to ensure that the Kauai hydro project will be ecologically and socially just, to the relief of many environmental and renewable energy advocates, the Hawaii Governor vetoed the aforementioned renewable energy bill in July of 2022. That said, the very fact that this bill passed the state senate illustrates the potential for "renewable energy" transitions to reproduce many of the same social, economic, and even climate and environmental justice issues and challenges that these transitions are (at least superficially) intended to mitigate or resolve.

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It seems to me that our era is one of dispersion and disarticulation. This is not the same as the siloed domains of disciplinary society. These siloes are what has been undone. Cultural critique and also even transdisciplinarity have, I think, at times, been both symptomatic and catalyst of this wide-spread historical trend of dispersion. That doesn't mean we need to return to the siloes, it means we need to be smarter and more intentional in the way we coordinate our critiques and our collaborations.

It seems to me that what we need are new skills and expertise in what could be called "regrouping." This is a key dynamic of anthropology and ethnography since its very beginning. But it's even more apparent in contemporary, multi-sited/sighted ethnography: i.e. the intentionally constructed research designs inspired by Marcus's early work on the method.

I think we need theoretically informed coordinational capacities. Experimenting with new kinds of partnerships, organizational designs, production and flows of information.

Howey and Neale’s concept of “divisible governance” (2022) enables of critical understanding of how Austin’s environmental vulnerabilities have been produced in tandem with fossil-fueled, racial-capitalist assemblages. One of the key strategies of divisible governance that these authors identify is the fragmentation and organization of space, time, and jurisdiction to obscure unjust distributions of risk and benefit across populations and scales. In Austin, Texas, contemporary efforts of organizing energy justice around energy transition are both powered by and inseparable from racial capitalism and fossil capital, or what I shall call, following Luke and Heynan (2020), petro-racial capitalism. The same logics of exclusion, marginalization, appropriation, sacrifice, and displacement that characterized and enabled the Texas oil booms and busts, and that are embedded in the state’s social, legal, and technological infrastructures, are being put towards Austin’s renewable energy transition, with unintended consequences. Even those who are explicitly critical of petro-racial capitalism find it hard to recognize and excise these logics, as they become written into the social cycles and rhythms of city life, into our forms of knowledge and self-reflection, into our bodily habits and sensitivities.

The demographic patterns that characterize Austin's contemporary racial geography were largely set into motion with the City's 1928 master plan, which designated Austin's eastern corridor as the city's industrial park as well as the segregated district for the city's Black and Brown communities. This established the legal infrastructure that would enable and justify decades of environmental racism, as the blind eye towards East Austin's racial and environmental injustices persisted throughout the 20th century. Even as more elite, white communities started to organize around the protection of locally vulnerable ecologies, green spaces, and species, since these spaces were predominantly located in west Austin, above the vulnerable Edwards Aquifer, sacrificing the health of the less charismatic Blackland Prarie to the East was seen as an acceptable, if also regrettable, compromise (Walsh 2007). It wasn't until the 1990's, when East Austin's own communities learned of the toxins their communities had been exposed to on a daily basis that this began to change. PODER (People Organized in Defense of Earth's Resources) formed soon after, and worked to rid their communities of these risks as well as to rezone their communities to prevent further exposures in the future.

On top from local pollutants, East Austin's environmental vulnerability is also related to infrastructural inequality. For instance, during the 2021 Texas Power Crisis, which ensued in the wake of winter storm Uri, East Austin was subjected to a disproportionate number and duration of outages, when compared to areas of the city. Following up on numerous reports of this kind of racially biased distributions of risk during the blackouts, a study by Carvallo and colleagues provides empirical evidence of the degree to which people of color were disadvantaged (Carvallo et al. 2021). The authors identify a general lack of publicly available data on the locations of blackouts, especially at a granularity that would allow scholars, activists, and other interested persons to make correlations to the racial makeup of these communities, or other important demographic factors. Mirroring the argument of Howey and Neale (2022), the authors argue that this lack of data and lack of access to data plays an important role in mystifying--and therefore reproducing--the material conditions that underwrite structural racism in the United States. Controlling for both income level and the presence/absence of critical infrastructure, they found that communities of color were four times as likely to experience an outage than predominantly white communities. Furthermore, they argue that current rationales for explaining the locations and distributions of blackouts cannot account for this finding, suggesting the need for further research into how and where racial bias has been baked into the energy system and its methods and strategies of emergency response.

The Texas Power Crisis also points back to deeper seated issues related to the structure and operation of Texas' power grid and energy market, which was designed operate at the brink of failure, in order to keep average costs low and maximize the potential for profits during high "pricing events." Unlike many other Independent System Operators (ISO), which often combine energy markets with capacity markets to ensure greater grid reliability, the Electric Reliability Council of Texas (ERCOT) uses the price signals of the energy market alone to manage grid reliability. For instance, PJM (another ISO, operating in the northeastern US) has a capacity market that projects and procures the projected amount of energy needed three years in advance of the day it will be delivered. In doing so, they are typically over-budget by about 21%, creating a substantial safety reserve. The costs of this reserve are then recovered through the charges made to ratepayers through their monthly bills.

In Texas, there is no such capacity market. Instead, Texas manages it's marginal reserve by taking the full capacity for energy production in the state and subtracting the projected "peak demand." This "energy only" market, as it is often called, means that energy operators are only paid for the energy they put into the market at the price reflected by the energy demand at that precise time. This creates a volatile market in which energy prices fluctuate wildly, with the final cap set at a whopping $9,000 per kilowatt hour (for comparison, the average price is about $28 per kWh). Accordingly, this creates a supremely tough environment for planning in to the future at all, especially in regard to the timing of new construction projects, facility maintenance, and other such investments. By contrast, capacity markets allow for a steady, fixed stream of income from ratepayers that can be budgeted and invested over an extended period. Thus, there is a real sense in which the Texas energy market dissuades power generators from attending to maintenance issues or for investing in things like winter weatherization, which will be expensive, hard to recoup, and (especially for many Texas generators) only necessary for a handful of days every few years.

Usually, Texas' reserve hovers at about 12-15%, which is about the same as ERCOT's neighboring ISOs. However, there is another marked difference between Texas and these other ISOs: a notable lack of interconnections. For instance, in an emergency or a power shortage of some kind, both the Southwest Power Pool and Midcontinent ISO have substantial capacity for electricity to flow between these otherwise independent control areas. ERCOT, by contrast has only a handful of DC ties to other systems, with very limited capacity to bring in or send out energy across these interconnections. In that sense, the Texas grid operates more like an "island system," like Hawaii, or New Zealand, which do not have the option of bringing in power from elsewhere. This forces these island control areas to operate with a substantial reserve, almost double that of Texas' 12-15%.

So, why doesn't Texas interconnect? Well, that has to do with the long-held value for independence. Because, by limiting these cross-state interconnections, Texas has been able to avoid federal oversight, offering the state an impressive amount of political autonomy over its power system. However, in a paradoxical way, this very "Texan" desire for autonomy at the federal level, to be even "more autonomous" than the rest, combined with the emphatic preference to govern through market in order to keep prices low, has actually restricted Texas capacity, at the state level and below, to ensure safe, affordable, and especially equitable access to electricity; a fact made most evident during the 2021 crisis. 

Within the ERCOT's "island" grid and energy market, Austin Energy serves as another, different kind of "island." That is, unlike many competitive regions in Texas, Austin's utility is municipally owned and operated. This effectively means that Austin Energy has a monopoly on electricity provision within their service area, which they are in charge of managing under the direction of Austin's City Council. This structure enables Austin more democratic control over the way they produce, distribute, and consume electricity, allowing for planning processes like the Resource Generation and Climate Protection Plan, which generates goals and guidelines for the utility to follow in performing the city's transition to renewable energy.

However, despite this democratic control at the retail level, Austin Energy must still operate within the ERCOT market at the "wholesale" level. That is, first and foremost, Austin Energy produces and sells electricity into the ERCOT market at the current market price. They then buy this electricity back from ERCOT in order to finally sell this electricity to their customers. Because of this, there is only a round-about, and somewhat fictitious sense in which Austin produces its own electricity. And, importantly, it also means that Austin Energy, like all power generators in ERCOT, are subjected to the Texas energy market's renowned price volatility, increasing the financial risks of investing in new infrastructure, like renewable energy. Thus, there is a very real sense in which the utility and, by proxy, City Council are forced to adopt or at least factor in capitalist logics and strategies into their energy transition planning.

As a result, even superficially democratic energy transition planning processes end up being overly technocratic. Take, for example, the Resource Planning Working Group, which brings in appointed "representatives" of the Austin community to discuss various transition goals, strategies, and scenarios in order to settle on a set of recommended updates to the City's ten-year Resource Generation and Climate Protection plan. While this group proudly operated by what they referred to as “consensus,” this largely translated into the use of the market as the dominant logic for resolving any differences in values or perspective back to identity, back to “the bottom line” if you will. See, for example, this discussion taken from my field notes during one of the Resource Planning Working Group meetings, in which participants were debating the pros and cons of a new, market-based approach to carbon reduction:

Charles (CFO of Austin Energy): If the scenario does what it says, what is the push for the other scenarios? Because this scenario removes carbon faster than all the others, and it does so safely and affordably.
...
Cary (Chair of the RPWG): Kaiba, I think if you massage it and understand this plan a little better, you’ll like it.
Kaiba (Local environmentalist): "Massage it, or understand it? Because I could massage it into something better... My point is that you do not have a column, or rating system for local economic benefits besides PSA [i.e. the costs forwarded to ratepayers] and for establishing an energy democracy. I understand that is not the priority of the utility, but it is for us. There are values that are not being reflected here."
...
Charles: On social benefits and detriments... Some of the things proposed, the low-income people are not going to be able to handle this. People who rent can’t add solar. Those things, as the models show, are not the best for … [in a more frustrated tone] What we are trying to do here? Are we trying to advance solar, or are we trying to decrease carbon? If we are trying to decrease carbon, this plan does that, and it does it affordably. It is not doing it through added solar or DR [demand response]; it is doing it though.

One notable feature of this discourse is that, even as it pertains to equity, the discussion focuses on the producers and the consumers of energy, rather than the victims of the environmental injustices engendered through this energy production. This particular feature of energy transition planning discourse relates to what Cohn has called "technostrategic language." First used to describe the language and thought of nuclear defense strategists, “technostrategic languages” represent a mode of speaking/articulation, developed alongside certain technologies, that is structured in such a way as to inhibit technocratic experts from being able to recognize and/or consider the unexpected or the wider implications of that technology and their use of it:

“Structurally, speaking technostrategic language removes [the speaker] from the position of victim and puts them in the position of the planner, the user, the actor. From that position, there is neither need nor way to see oneself as a victim; no matter what one deeply knows or believes about the likelihood of nuclear war, and no matter what sort of terror or despair the knowledge of nuclear war's reality might inspire, the speakers of technostrategic language are positionally allowed, even forced, to escape that awareness, to escape viewing nuclear war from the position of the victim, by virtue of their linguistic stance as users, rather than victims, of nuclear weapone” (Cohn 1987, 706).

The language used in the Working Group discussion similarly positions the planners as the users of fossil fuels (and/or renewables), rather than those who were dealing with the pollution they produce, rather than those who deal with climate change. Even when they considered "equity," it was in equitable "use" of the fossil fuels, or making sure you could access this energy at an equitable price. There wasn't a consideration for which of Austin Energy's assets were harming local ecologies and populations the most. It was only ever some vague sense that carbon is causing climate change and more extreme weather "for all of us."

In a later moment, during a discussion of "asset substitution," or, the very real problem that, due to the structure of the Texas market, if Austin Energy shuts down one of their dirtiest facilities, it may bring an even dirtier facility online elsewhere, resulting in a "net" loss for carbon reduction in Texas. To this, Kaiba responded by suggesting that it might still "send a market signal," which could end up greening the grid over time. That's not a bad play, in this context. But, once again, it is evidence of the technostrategic language at work. Kaiba, who is an astute environmental justice advocate, adopted a way of thinking and speaking that focused on the producers and the consumers of fossil fuel and renewable energy, rather than recentering the conversation to the people of La Grange or those living near Decker Creek who have had to deal with decades of coal ash and toxic smoke, and who bear the most weight of Austin Energy’s worst polluting energy facilities.

This discussion of "technostrategic language" paves the way for one last "scale" of action/activity, affected by divisible governance, that plays into Austin's environmental vulnerability: the scale of subjectivity. In particular, certain tactics of power, like technostrategic language (Cohn 1987), keep separate the otherwise tangled and multi-dimensional fragments of our subjectivities and ethics. Take, for example, this quote by Katie Coyn, who was one of the co-chairs of Austin's Climate Equity Plan's Steering Committee.

"I just wanted to quickly talk about one more thing. I think it is important to talk about the hard points. Here is just a little anecdote. Most of our steering committee meetings I was a facilitator, trying to frame conversations. As an example of how much white supremacy culture is ingrained even in the way that I think, in the way we have been taught to think about efficiency. After George Floyd was murdered, we had a steering committee meeting the next week, and we got on, we made space at the beginning for black members to talk. And... the amount of trauma that we unpacked and listened to... was so vital for everyone to hear. But at the time, I had so much discomfort letting go of the idea that I had to get the meeting moving along. And that’s coming from someone who really cares about being empathetic to people and wanting to hear those stories. And even knowing that, I was so uncomfortable with the idea that we ended up using that entire two-hour meeting to unpack that trauma. And, I don’t know... for me that was so revealing that, you know, I think I am mindful of all these things, and I still could feel my body, uncomfortable with doing things that way."

Identifying as a politically active member of Austin's LGBTQ community, Katie sees herself as empathic, as a feminist, and a trained and committed anti-racist ally. And, in my experience, she does quite well in these regards. And yet, in this particular context, she felt the conflict, viscerally, between the demand to keep separate the time and space for grief, and the time and space for planning. She felt the pull of divisible governance, urging her to keep her identity as a feminist, her role as a ally, separate from her identity and role as a Steering Committee co-chair.

This evidences the way that divisible governance works, not only on juridical divisions, but also the way that we distinguish and purify our professional lives from our personal lives, the way critical academics take a blind eye to the problematic dynamics of their departments and universities, the way we keep our professional ethics separate from our ethical sense as a sister, an aunt, a grandmother, by keeping our training in the scientific method separate and purified from our love of literature, or of music, or philosophy, or what have you. In this way, in addition to being a technique for the production of space and time, divisible governance also produces ethics; it influences the location of the fault lines that define the contours of our ethical plateaus. The location of the lines that distinguish the categories of experience that ebable the specificity of our ethical sense, shaping the ways such plateaus align, overtake, and resist each other, producing the ethical double binds and contradictory obligations, incentives, and opportunities of energy transitions.

From its earliest settlement on through to more recent demographic booms, Austin's developers and city planners have tended to recognize the bucolic landscape surrounding the city as a significant draw that should be preserved. For this reason (along with the relative lack of mineral resources), Austinites have managed to stave off the "smokestack" approach to development, and preserve its unique ecologies, green spaces, and relatively clean air and water resources.

Despite this fact, however, not all of Austin's citizens have had equal access to these clean and green spaces. Austin's eastern corridor has long served as the city's official sacrifice zone. The City's first Master Plan in 1928 established East Austin as mixed use, serving as the zone for the city's industrial development as well as the segregated district for all of Austin's communities of color. Despite legal segregation ending with Brown v. Board in 1954, the vast majority of Austin's black and brown residents continue to live in this formerly segregated district. And the blatantly unjust mixture of industrial and residential zoning in East Austin had also persisted long after de jure segregation had ended. Thus, I would argue that Austin's environmental liberalism is, itself, and environmental hazard, as Austin's reputation for climate and ecological consiousness has masked the environmental injustices long perpetuated in the city and by the City.

Since the early 1990's, however, environmental justice groups have pressured the City to recognize and address this text-book example of environmental racism, with People Organized in Defense of Earth's Resources (PODER) being a notable leader on this front. Some significant victories include the relocation of a bulk fuel storage facility known as the "Tank Farms," a metal foundry, a waste management facility, and eventually, the re-zoning of East Austin's neighborhoods to prevent further industrial development. A few years later, PODER also successfully pressured the city to close the Holly Street Power plant which, for decades, had produced considerable noise pollution, caused local fires, and emitted high rates of nitrogen oxide that contributed to ozone. Decker Creek Power station, which is located at eastern edge of Austin's city limits, runs on natural gas, has long been a target for closure by local environmental and environmental justice organizations. This video shows an interesting look at the power plant, using different filters to render otherwise invisble pollution more legible, providing a composite picture of pollution at this site. Though, the viewer's understanding the video is hampered due to the lack of any commentary or explanation of the filters used and what they might mean. This plant was scheduled for closure in March of 2022, but there have been no updates on this closure at this time of this annotation (Nov 2022).

At a grander scale, but also much like how Austin relegated the city's environmental risks to its eastern cooridor, the City of Austin has produced environmental hazards that are more displaced from Austin's residents and cherished local landscapes and ecologies. For instance, the vast oil and gas resources controlled by UT Austin, the flagship university of the University of Texas system, have long been deployed to aquire or develop infrastructure to attract high-tech industry to the city. And the map of these oil and gas leases correlates strongly with the highest rates of cancer risk due to air pollution in the state. The City's public utilty, Austin Energy (AE) also owns ecologically destructive assets that compromise public health in well-removed places. For example, AE's dirtiest energy asset, the Fayette Power Plant (FPP), is located 64 miles away in La Grange, Texas. This coal plant is the 16th largest polluting facility in the state of Texas, emitting mercury, lead, nitrogen oxides, sulfur dioxide, carbon monoxide, particulate matter, and other pollutants that are associated with ecological destruction, cancer, and other serious health conditions. In 2004, the Clean Air Task Force conducted a study that estimated econmoic damages related to the ecological and public health impacts from FPP's pollution at $5.6 million annually. After decades long battle, AE's share of the FPP (AE owns 1/3 of the plant, the Lower Colorado River Authority (LCRA) owns the other 2/3) was slated for closure in 2022, according to the 2017 Resource Generation and Climate Protection Plan. In november of 2021, however, it was announced that negotiations with LCRA broke down, and Austin Energy's share of the plant is no longer expected to close any time soon.

Aside from these pollutive industries, the City of Austin (along with Central Texas more generally) is notoriously flood prone. In just five years, between 2013 and 2018, Austin experienced three 100-year floods, resulting in extensive financial and infrastructural damage as well as significant loss of life. In 2018, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's Atlas 14 detailed the flood risks in central Texas, which were considerably higher than previously thought. The shock induced by this study provoked ATX Floodplains, Austin's a 5-year project to re-assess and remap Austin's floodplains and adjust insurance requirements/premiums and emergency planning accordingly.

In much of both the academic and popular writing about Austin, one of its most frequently remarked features is the abundance of natural beauty. This is due in part to the fact that Austin is located at a nexus of different geological formations, which supply the city and its surrounding areas with rich and diverse landscapes, flora, and fauna. In fact, when Robert T. Hill—UT Austin’s first professor of Geology—first arrived at Austin, he noted that the city was a prime location for the study of geology, as there is such a great diversity of formations and deposits from a wide range of geological ages (Student Geology Society 1977).
Austin’s position at the intersection of diverse geological formations creates a rich and peculiar landscape that supports a comparably unique ecology. Indeed, many of Austin’s more charismatic species live in extremely niche habitats and can’t be found anywhere else on the planet. Historians of the city often remark on the way that this landscape and the forms of plant and animal life it supports have shaped ideas for the city’s future, particularly concerning its economic and cultural development. William Swearingen argues that it was the environmentalists’ ability to enroll the elite Austinites’ appreciation of the area’s natural beauty that gave them the political power to quell the most ecologically harmful forms of development. This unique breed of environmentalism, based in part on ensuring the elite’s desired quality of life, helped to cajole Austin’s growth machine into “build[ing] the natural into the urban rather than plowing it under the urban” (Swearingen 2010, 189).
Less panglossian histories, however, have exposed the darker side of Austin’s development. Despite the negligible mineral resources within Austin, the city’s social spatial production was ultimately financed by the rise of the Texas oil industry and the development of polluting industries elsewhere (Tretter 2016, Robbins 2003). Furthermore, even the preservation of Austin’s local nature wasn’t equally guaranteed for everyone (Walsh 2007). Austin’s city planning processes both systematically reduced local racial minorities’ access to Austin’s preserved green spaces while also choosing black and brown neighborhoods as the location of the city’s polluting industries (Busch 2017). Thus, despite Austin’s remarkable record of environmental victories and glowing inter/national reputation as a ideal place to live, its “weird” forms of life were founded on logics of settler colonialism and developed through the differential valuations and investments in land, bodies, and technologies that operated according to capitalist logics of progress and sacrifice.

I am looking to unsettle the way that I think about my work, my methods, my research questions and interests by listening to the thoughts, projects, thinking styles of other researchers. And I hope that my contributions can do a bit of the same for others. As part of that, I am also interested in forming collaborations, finding writing partners, and developing new research activities to get involved in. I am also interested in the lab as an opportunity to improve my ability to communicate my work to different kinds of audiences, with different backgrounds and at different levels of training.

As the research of the Energy in COVID-19 group progresses, I am beginning to take a deep interest in temporality as it concerns both the unfolding pandemic and responses to it. Though disasters are truly all about timing and time is a prominent focus in much of the disaster studies literature, it seems particularly salient here. Discourses around COVID-19 are suffuse with temporal references: infection rates, mutation rates, rates of recovery, the new normal, the global economic slow-down, "responding too late," "opening up too soon," returning fire/hurricane season, disrupted circadian rhythms, caretaker fatigue, quarantine dragging on, living in (Bill Murray's) groundhog day. To many, time in the pandemic appears discontinuous and contradictory. Or, better yet, pandemic time is like time out of sync. Things happen too fast in some places, too slow in others. Boredom mingles with anxiety.

In the electric utility world, our group aims to analyze how COVID's temporality is conflicting with that of the social and physical infrastructures that enable people's access to energy. This includes keep track of things like frequencies of outages as well as reports of increases in response times due to decreased staff and restricted movement. We are also noting how the crisis is precluding many of the daily coping strategies of limited-income communities who were already dealing with energy vulnerability (i.e. visiting friends or public spaces with AC during the heat of the day).

Beyond informal coping strategies, the extant social infrastructure of energy assistance is also strained by the pandemic's longevity. LIHEAP's energy assistance programs, which vary by state, were only designed to offer short-term assistance during "crisis seasons" (i.e. harsh summers and/or winters). Most are neither prepared nor funded well enough to offer assistance over the long term. The existence and duration of moratoriums on disconnections (as well as plans to recover their costs) also vary by state. Thus, as seasons continue to change while these moratoriums come to an end, we aim to create both a map and timeline of the shifting spatio-temporality of energy vulnerability taking shape across the US.

On the other hand, the crisis is also opening up the possibility of new energy futures. Many nations and states are shifting their attention from immediate emergency management to thinking about economic recovery. In the past, efforts to boost the economy would, by default, entail massive uptakes in carbon emissions. Today, however, the crash in oil and gas, which coincided the outbreak of COVID-19 has had deep and far reaching consequences and some experts are predicting that the combined stressors are such that the industry will not likely be able recover. In response, a number of prominent economists have generated Green-New-Deal-like recovery plans that have also been endorsed by international development agencies like the IEA and IMF. This new globalist turn toward sustainable recovery could signal a new imaginary for the planet's energy future.

Thus, in addition to thinking about the temporality of disasters (i.e. fast vs slow), this pandemic raises questions about how intersecting temporalities are also constitutive of the disaster. That is, how are the complex, multiple, and dynamic temporalities of COVID-19 entangling with and interrupting other cycles, rhythms, and rates of change? How is this engendering and compounding its disastrous effects? On the other hand, what opportunities has it created? How might the COVID-19 experience alter or shape new ideologies and phenomenologies of time or imaginaries of the future? What temporal sensibilities do we need to develop in order to cope with the new normal of the "post-COVID" world?

In Energy in COVID-19, we are focused on how these questions pertain to plans and practices for producing, distributing, and consuming energy and related services. However, I also hold that the "COVID moment" is opportune for a wider problematization of time and disaster in a more general sense, one that may have important implications for disaster studies and disaster governance in/of the Anthropocene.