diary. it's 02/02/2020. 33rd day of the year. 333 days left to go. then some mo.

we did some mo urban archeology in the rubble field and the crushed swamp aided by the latest storms. this is looking through a piece of tumbled glass. you want to see some other treasures the storm tossed at our feet? everything comes back to us. everything we throw away, every thing we waste, it comes back. in underland he writes about a repository for nuclear waste in a mountain in finland, the cloaca maxima, the hiding place. a thousand years ago a long poem, the kalevala, warns of stored materials of great energy and spells of enchantment that when spoken will release great power. the protagonist is warned to wear shoes of copper and shirt of iron for protection, and not to bring to the surface what is buried underland, of the grievous pain of excavation. but the protagonist sings his conviction that the buried power should be brought to the surface. it's an ancient warning about nuclear power the waste of which they are trying to bury today, as more waste is created and the underland become a hell of human making. they're trying to devise warning signs to some abstract creatures of the future who may not be as precocious as us. but even if they can decipher our cryptic language, who ever heeds warnings, and if they do, they will be smarter than us, and won't need our careless warnings anyway.