There were shadows on what might have been Walton Street. There were shadows. By day, things are different: colors jostle against one another, all in the name of commerce, advertisement, seductions whispering a single word: “Buy. When I saw gold and shadows on what might have been Walton street (or at least a street nearby) the commerce-colors were gone and the windows of expensive boutiques and name brand shops whispered their single admonishment to buy...tomorrow, when each of the stores were open. In the night-time darkness of Walton Street (or a street of another name) there were colors. There were reflections. Restaurants announced themselves with smells wafting in nouveau-riche accents of the same Italianate language. Steak-houses loomed in a more southern distance. Neon flashed in the rubies gone pale and cobalt tinged with a hint of dissipation. A fortune-teller advertised her services in the glare of brilliant, pinkish red. I knew the fortune teller: I’d availed myself of her services once—long ago. I went with a friend to see a movie. The Silence of the Lambs, and we’d arrived early in the neighborhood. In the interest of wasting time and gaining an experience, I walked in the direction of the giant neon purple hand. Tarot readings were only $10 at the time. The going rate is now $20, but there’s no guarantee that you’d get a good reading. No guarantee that you’d even get to shuffle a full deck. There’s no guarantee that the reader in question is any good. I knew this as I followed the call of the giant, purple hand. The reader was Roma, an authentic Gypsy. She read my cards after I’d shuffled the deck, and I was impressed to see her turn the cards over, like the pages of a book, rather than flip them, as is common with cards. (When reading Tarot, one turns the cards rather than flips them…a card means something different if turned upside down, and a card changes meaning whenever it’s flipped. Flipping a card in Tarot is tantamount to stacking the deck. It’s a no-no.) As she read my cards (more than 10 of them!) she came to Death: one of my favorite Major Arcana cards. She didn’t exactly skip over it so much as she shrugged dismissively and said: “Oh, you already know most of this stuff, since you’re a reader too.” I got my $10 reading and it was worth the price. Casual interaction with both a client and the cards bespeaks a massive amount of skill. On the night that golden light cast reflections on Walton Street (or whatever street I’m talking about) I didn’t visit a fortune teller. There were no glowing, purple hands, announcing the dramatic flourish of an authentic Gypsy reading. I am a card reader, though particular Born Again Christians have seen fit to destroy (or simply lose my decks, as I couldn’t take them with me to Prague. I have only one deck now…and it resides in—of all places—Prague. Once upon a time, I had close to 20 decks.) On the night that I took this photograph, Tarot cards were far from my mind, though I was close (somewhat) to a fellow card-reader. I was more interested in the shimmer of reflections, announcing the presence of metal, glass, and other shimmery things. I have yet to read any cards (I probably won’t read any until I’m reunited with my one, surviving deck) but I have captured gleaming metal, golden light, and inkwell shadows in a stretch of the Chicago nightscape. I like the gleam of metal, glass, and diffuse night-light. I like the memories a single image may recall...of a giant, purple-neon hand, no longer in existence. I like the glitz and the glamour of Walton (or some other Gold Coast street) at night, and the fact that a fortune teller, a sooth-sayer lives and works within walking distance of this shot. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.