I often dig old crap out of the ground, so today’s chore at the summer house provided some novelty. I won’t say welcome novelty: I re-cut the cesspit and emptied the outhouse barrel, burying new crap.
In recent years, there has been a vogue among archaeological museums to host “incavations”. Museum visitors are invited to bring stuff that has meaning to them, and it is ceremonially buried in the museum grounds. It’s basically a pomo version of the time-hallowed custom where the town mayor and his buddies would bury a metal box with papers and coins under the cornerstone of the new post office.
In my mind, incavation sorts with the rest of pretentious pomo museum wankery. But I don’t really belong to the museums’ target audience. I guess anything that entertains the punters and keeps the place funded is good. And professionally, I must of course applaud any activity that leads to find combinations ending up underground. After all — the only artefact I have buried today is toilet paper.