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  • My wife and I like to go to the Swansea Flea Market on Sunday morning. These types of markets go by many names - tag sale, rummage sale, or swap meet. Its a kind of bazaar where people sell things they have collected. There is no quality control. The people who sell arrive before sunrise in cars with broken springs and in vans packed tight. They sleep in their cars and wait for early bird spots to set up tables and lay their fugacious possessions on wet grass.

    We go weekly and have made friends with a few dealers. I think some of them like to chat as much as they like to sell things. One man has a bad weekly joke. Others chat about e-bay and how it has unitized the price of junk. Chat about the Antique Road Show and how it raises hope of sudden wealth. Chat about how they are just getting around to cleaning out the dead husband's garage. Chat about the lost job. Discuss the ephemeral aspects of memorabilia. There is a lot of banter and barter. There are some clean outs. That happens when an estate is sold by children who have to do it quick. Some dealers are carpet beetles picking at the bones of the once living, the bottom feeders, the dealers who draw sustenance from the dead.

    Apart from the dollar tables of new stuff and the farmers selling Asian vegetables; most everything was once loved enough to be kept. You never know what you'll find. Ten thousand transitioning things - once loved, forgotten, abandoned, collected, and passed on.

    Each item is a thought, a design, the representation of a moment when a thing was made.

    Pictured here - the image of a deer badly inscribed in plywood standing where a live one might have stood.

    A remote reminder - nature had no reason before industry either.
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