Gathering Moss Gabe King
He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. —James Joyce
The rooftop of Union Station St. Louis’s headhouse burns a most magnificent crimson at the golden hour. A series of darkly gleaming arches umbrella the entryways and the clock tower that protrudes sharply from its western end seems to stretch itself upwards forever. The limestone facade has visibly aged, not into ruin but into a stately elegance found in all great, old buildings. Upon its grand opening in 1894, it was the world’s busiest rail station, moving more people and more freight than any other. Its construction coincided with the closing of the West, as brick by brick and tie by tie, the American empire spread itself to the coast. Now here at the seat of that invasion, we built this gargantuan tribute to our own decadence; shrouded under the grandest train shed anywhere on Earth. It is grand and beautiful and endlessly indulgent. I sat across Market Street, in front of a Carl Milles sculpture entitled Meeting of the Waters, its name a reference to the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers that define the city’s sprawl. I was in town to see The Rolling Stones. And having done an appropriate amount of pregaming in the bar of the Pear Tree Inn, I set out across St. Louis’s downtown, toward the dome in search of Rock n’ Roll hedonism. The weather was perfect, with the sun dropping low in the sky to my back, spreading an orange grow all the way around the horizon. The sign in front of a bank informed me that it was 88 degrees out, but the sharp breeze coming down the street and the rare lack of humidity made it all feel warm and pleasant.
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