I find stuff like The Dig quite emotiinal. These landscapes we move through and how are how we are grounded in it, our feet walking where other feet have walked. A fascination based on lots of facets.

Where we all come from, the strings of our shared past entwined, the good and the bad of it. When I spot and pick up anything, a bit of pot, tile, brick, a crotal bell, or especially a worked flint, regardless of when it’s from, it’s a connection to someone lived...

Items another living being made and used, then discarded or lost these things, marks they made, this insistence we have on being. And here we are, leaving our own trail.

It’s not just what you find it’s what you see, in the fields, streets, the bits of reused stones in walls, the wear marks, dents, flaking fading paint of ghost signs and patterns of change and modification in the city surfaces and street lines around us.

... Paving, the gaps in tarmac revealing cobbles, old brick lines in the gravel of car park, brick and freestone jumble in a wall. Names of forgotten sainted churches on road signs. Languages absorbed and changed by time.

And here we are, alive and digging upward, trying to understand the world around us, to live, breathe, just like they did, leaving our fretful joyous marks, to exist and to have been, to be part of this huge arc that is us.

Please excuse spelling mistakes. Tired.