Writeup of UC Berkeley Seismological Laboratory’s Dr. Peggy Hellweg’s talk at Oakland, California’s Chabot Space and Science Center

Dr. Peggy Hellweg

Dr. Peggy Hellweg

No, Dr. Peggy Hellweg of UC Berkeley’s Seismological Laboratory can’t predict the Bay Area’s next major earthquake. However, she did go over why scientists think the Hayward fault could get shaken up pretty soon. That was part of her talk during March’s enrichment lecture for Chabot volunteers and their guests.
Earthquakes occur when the edges of the major tectonic plates that make up the earth’s crust stick, rub or break off against each other. There are three different types of tectonic plate boundaries: transform, where the plates are moving past each other horizontally, convergent, where they move towards each other, and divergent, where the plates are moving apart. Most of California’s faults, including the large San Andreas fault, are transform faults. The North American plate, where our continent resides, is moving slowly westward, while the Pacific plate, adjacent to the west, is moving slowly eastward.
Until about 30 million years ago, the land that is now California was within a subduction zone, where part of one plate moves underneath another and becomes buried. The present-day San Andreas fault system formed from the tension created as the North American plate moved northwest.
Geologists figured out that continents moved over time by observing changes in the magnetic fields of rocks. When rocks heated above a certain temperature cool, they take on the magnetic field orientation present around them, which depends on where they are located in relation to the Earth’s magnetic poles. So when some rocks in a certain area have a different orientation from nearby rocky matter, we can infer that they have moved in from elsewhere. Researchers estimate that the earth’s tectonic plates move at about five centimeters per year.

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Poetry from Elle Pryor

Next Door to the Brewery

 

Often on leaden days, eddies of air

sift hop vapours into this tight room.

It sooths the scald of my dark patch,

settles in the glasses of public houses.

Bitterness is absorbed by harried bodies

tracing their lifelines on grain tables

branded with Olympian rings.

 

The brewery creates a space, dapples black

the nesting ground of watching seagulls,

hiding human calls with their screams.

A flurry of malted smoke smothers

the possibility of new Subtopian plans.

Wind tours the cracks of winding pipes,

playing jazz symphonies at dawn.

 

The first to fourth of factory favours.

Others are the illumination of gardens

by a lone spotlight through the dark,

disused warehouses that shelter pigeons

and monolith weathered steel towers

lying flush against the dithers of tricks

and the furtive scurries of prostitutes.

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Prose sketches from Michael Robinson

City Sounds

 My foster father moved to his own rhythm, tapping down the street. In the quietness of my memory I wonder what inspired him to have such a rich soul, but soul was a movement in the neighborhood.   It was the Motown Sounds that awaken my love of life: Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, and the Temptations along with James Brown the godfather of soul all were alive with soul. The essence of the black moment outside of the anger and riots, enjoy the beat and move your hips to the sound. While maybe people rioted it was the music that many more enjoyed. It was a special night when I saw the godfather on stage. Sweat pouring down his face and as he was escorted off stage he would reappear and be escorted off again only to reappear. It was truly a show of wonder. There was no energy left after watching any of those who performed to sounds of soul in the inner- city. The streets are free of violence and I listen to sounds and I dance.

 

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Poetry from Merrell Miles

Dirty Desperation 
I carefully grab a fork from the yellow-stained sink,

dip it under the rushing chlorine-saturated water,
which scalds my hand, hot like a nice shower.
I plop the filthy fork into the naturally white (but now
a nice shade of secondhand) and red checkered dish
rag, scrubbing away toxic gunk that grew around its
edges in the sink while I ignored the souring dishes
for a couple of weeks. The gross pieces
make my stomach shift and shake like a child’s leg
under a mouse.
Here I stand, washing dishes at midnight,
and wishing that I could do the same with life.

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Short Fiction from Doug Hawley

PRODIGAL FATHER

Duke’s Story – Part One – I was drinking Black Butte Porter at my favorite bar after a miserable day at work. I’m the actuary at an insurance company that is losing money and possibly having its rating lowered. I tried to tell the president that we need to raise rates, but the marketing head was fighting me all the way. The bad news at work led down a dark hallway into everything else I hated about my life. Here I was in my fifties with few friends, little family left and not much to show for all the years. Wife Sally was about my only joy. The more I drank, the more I started to slide towards depression.

I had had my head down concentrating on my beer and was surprised to see a guy looking at me. Even stranger, he looked a lot like my late father had when he was in his thirties. Dad had done weightlifting in his youth and was totally studly before becoming obese. Except for eye color and his prematurely graying wavy hair, he could have been my father fifty years ago.

I left when I got to the staggering stage. I saw the guy from the bar following me and I worried about him being a mugger. In my state, I couldn’t put up much of a fight. I was surprised that he just gave me a note: “Duke, this is your son Walter. Please don’t contact me. Janine”

My knees buckled and I started to hit the pavement.

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Short fiction from Jaime Mathis

Lightening

The first time he saw her, the sky screamed lightning. That’s what he told anyone who asked in the years after their breakup. He knew it was a desperate move; painting his failure with bold foreshadowing only made him look stupid and weak. Still, it was a chance he was willing to take. At least there would be something on record for people to reference when she moved on to her next victim.

He was sick of feeling like a host for her parasitic needs. The apartment was perpetually trashed no matter how many hours he spent picking up empty pizza boxes, video games or the juice boxes crammed between couch cushions. As fast as he moved, she was faster. Her stamina showed no signs of flagging.

“You should be more respectful,” he’d tell her. But just as quickly, she’d remind him she never forced him; he’d jumped at the chance to give her a place to stay. To make sure she was off the streets and getting regular meals. At least that’s what he’d told her. And himself.

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Poetry from Nathanial Caudel

There are far too many in the world

For anyone to try and number.

Yet they all after a while

will send many into a deep slumber.

 

There is no doubt that religion in itself

will bore you out of your mind.

I believe we get the gist of it:

let us all be kind.

 

What is so wrong with religion you may ask.

How about their hypocritical values on which they stand?

A world full of hunger and poverty

but hardly ever do they lend a hand.

 

Religion at its core may be ideal:

however, now money is the main goal.

Far from what it should be:

to give hope, love, and peace to hurting souls.

 

Many people see religion as a way

to be able to connect personally to the universe.

All it seems to do is give hope to those

who need it before riding in the back of a Hearse.