This image of Centaurus A shows a spectacular new view of a supermassive black hole's power. Jets and lobes powered by the central black hole in this nearby galaxy are shown by submillimeter data (colored orange) from the Atacama Pathfinder Experiment (APEX) telescope in Chile and X-ray data (colored blue) from the Chandra X-ray Observatory. Visible light data from the Wide Field Imager on the Max-Planck/ESO 2.2 m telescope, also located in Chile, shows the dust lane in the galaxy and background stars. The X-ray jet in the upper left extends for about 13,000 light years away from the black hole. The APEX data shows that material in the jet is travelling at about half the speed of light.
Credits: X-ray: NASA/CXC/CfA/R.Kraft et al.; Submillimeter: MPIfR/ESO/APEX/A.Weiss et al.; Optical: ESO/WFI
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Disturbed, Aeneas sat. No sign of the Supervisor or Apollo. He smirked at the thought. When ever are there signs by any god? Mother Earth. He shook his head. Mother Earth is long gone. I sit sulking on stone that isn’t stone and stare down into a crevasse that isn’t any more real than I am.
“Then jump,” said an inner voice Aeneas had long ago learned not to listen to. He did fall asleep though and dead he lay wedged snuggly between two undersized boulders in the morning light.
The Dead dream much as the Living but the interconnections are within others of the fold and themselves, especially friends, sometimes those friends still Living. This dream however was one like no other – and afterwards, fully awake, he committed the dream to memory through a focused center on setting, characters and serendipitous plot then reinforced this through actually recitation.
***
As Narrator I will transcribe the short but memorable dream. The reader can make of it what sheorhe may. The dream:
Walking out the south door of Our Mother’s quarters I follow a narrow flower and rock lined path between the great circle of stones. The higher inner stone lintels have a diameter of some fifty feet in the inner bluestone ring. This area is covered by a massive tree whose lower branches are the diameter of many a human torso.
Other lesser though still massive branches are the thickness of the length of a human legs from hip joint to toe tip and above they are the thickness of an arms from shoulder socket to fingertip. The tree appears to be as ageless as the human spirit. Upward and outwardly dark tentacles of a Giant Squid with a canopy of leaves over all the stones in the circles, a roof of knots and limbs burrowed into limbs each propping up the next set of higher and still massive limbs that are more than an forearm’s length in thickness.
‘Notice,’ says our Mother at the south entrance, ‘I am sitting thirty feet up on a lower tree limb as they come down the path to the Stone Circle. Each is dressed in similar attire, a loose collarless, split-neck tunic and baggy seated trousers with rope belt. Both tunic and trousers are unbleached linen with appropriate accessory leather-like sandals or slippers. Simple, comfortable clothing in any generation.’
I, Aeneas, glance at the Greek temple on each side of the Avenue in the distance. One Doric column holding a common corner. Three more columns to the West and three more temple columns to the South. These lead on to the columns of the arcade, a market place for the gatherings of personalities.
A group of five steps out of cadence onto the gray marble walkway at the temple and by the end of the first block of the arcade I had calculated each city block contained thirty-seven columns, fifteen feet high. The block is approximately 484 feet long with an eight foot grass horizontal lane between each of the eighteen blocks.
I am continually amazed at the power of the collective human mind of the ten thousand.
A mirror image of temple, columns, and arcade stood on the opposite side of the Avenue that lead from the stone circle and the inner target tree down to the River. Other groups meander about or sit on benches or on the grass and chat.
The small Congress passed through noticed, but not extraordinarily so. Spirited bodies each with a unique mix of human heart and soul, make up the common humanity. The individual gives up much of herorhimself to exist here. That is the way it is in the Place of the Dead. No fences exist other than lines of mutual comfort or discomfort. This Place is a human citadel of continuity with our birth Mother always at its forefront. These and all other matters will sink deep before they rise up as one voice declaring . . . .
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