Watching the developments and set-backs in containing the fall-out from the nuclear reactors in Japan, I remembered an article from a thoughtful website turned book from 2006, “This is not a Place of Honor,” about a campaign for the long now, to ensure that future generations ten-thousand years and more from today would know to avoid the nuclear waste dumps of the present—like the site that was being proposed at Yucca Mountain in Nevada. Considering human curiosity and the capacity to poke around in dangerous places, how could caretakers of the present communicate risk when all contemporary symbols and speech may fail?
The commission concluded that all conceivable warnings and barriers, including a spiky, alien wasteland on the perimeter, might have the opposite effect and entice visitors to the temples of our household atomics. Whether be it waste that was not sufficiently planned for or an uncontrolled disaster, harnessing nuclear energy has enduring consequences that are projected in the impossibly distant future, for which no auditor or insurance adjustor has actuary tables. A recent and equally philosophical post, vis-ร -vis Chernobyl--or the Chernobyl solution of entombment, remembering that the Soviets sometimes staunched oil leaks with small nuclear explosions, explores how lands made unholy through nuclear disasters can be corralled off from the population. What wandering, post-apocalyptic tribe, after all, would not be eager to occupy grounds bereft of competition and sacred to the atomic-age gods? The sources cited even suggest that a religious order be founded to keep the tradition and forbidding knowledge alive from aeon to aeon. What if today’s sectarians and secretive organizations are ancient and forgotten warnings in the same vein? 
