Maggie Gyllenhaal, Peter Sarsgaard, and me

From August 2022 to August 2023 I worked part-time as a grocery stocker at the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op in Vermont. It was a physically demanding job, especially for someone my age (I turned 68 in May of '23), but for the most part I enjoyed the work and the people I worked with. I even liked most of the customers, who, as Vermonters, were evidently required by law to be unnervingly pleasant.

Two such customers were the film actors Maggie Gyllenhaal and Peter Sarsgaard, a couple who, besides having double "a's" in their surnames, owned a vacation home just up the hill from Middlebury. So, at certain times of the year, they were frequent shoppers at the co-op.

I first met them one day when I was grabbing some cereal backstock from the shelves above the beer aisle, which was situated directly across from the deli bar. "Would you happen to know where I could find the raspberry vinaigrette dressing you used to have here?" said a voice from behind me.

Unsure of whom the voice was directed toward, I turned around...and there, standing directly in front of me now, was a woman whose eyes would be unmistakable in any situation, in any location in the known universe: Maggie Gyllenhaal. 

Maggie Gyllenhaal

I was so startled, all I could think of to say was, "I know you!" Which of course I didn't, but...I knew those eyes...that face...that voice...from all the movies I'd seen her in. "I've seen several of your movies and liked 'em all," I blurted. "And coincidentally, just last night my wife and I watched your brother Jake in The Day After Tomorrow."

Her brother? What did he have to do with this conversation? Was I a total idiot? (Don't answer that.) And oh, by the way, what movies had I seen Ms. Gyllenhaal in? Umm...hold on a minute...

Oh, yeah: A Dangerous Woman, Donnie Darko, Secretary, Adaptation, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Mona Lisa Smile, World Trade Center, White House Down, The Honorable Woman, The Kindergarten Teacher...and maybe a few others I can't recall. In fact, I couldn't recall most of these until just now, when I looked up Ms. Gyllenhaal's bio on IMDB. But in that moment when her eyes met mine, I recognized her instantly.

(Yeah, yeah, I know: she was also in Dark Knight and a bunch of other awesome films that I haven't yet seen. Just give me some time, OK?)

"Um, so, uh..." I stammered, "you're looking for the raspberry vinaigrette?"

She nodded. 

"Um, there might be some bottles of it back in the cooler in the produce section," I offered.

"No," she replied, smiling her gazillion-watt smile, "I need to put some on my salad for lunch." And then she abruptly turned away from me and said, "Never mind; I'll ask someone here in the deli."

I wasn't sure what to make of this. We were getting along so well, and she gives me the cold shoulder! Had I said the wrong thing? Did my leering make her uncomfortable? Was there garlic in my scrambled eggs this morning? Or was she just being polite and trying not to bother me with questions I couldn't answer?

Then I noticed another famous person standing off to the side, watching the saga of the movie star and the blithering idiot unfold. It was Peter Sarsgaard. Standing next to him were two teenage girls—his and Ms. Gyllenhaal's daughters, perhaps? 

Peter Sarsgaard

Having totally blown my chance to have a meaningful conversation with Ms. Gyllenhaal, I bravely decided to risk a similar debacle with Mr. Sarsgaard. So I strode up to him and said, as nonchalantly as I could, "I've seen most of your movies [an unwitting lie, as it turns out], but my favorite is Dopesick. I thought you were really good in that." I wish I'd had the presence of mind to add, "I also liked that your name in Dopesick was Rick," but it's probably best that I just shut the hell up at this point.

To my surprise, Mr. Sarsgaard smiled broadly and replied, "Oh, thanks a lot for saying so! Yeah, it was nice to do something substantial and meaningful for a change, and not just entertainment. In fact, before Dopesick I worked on a documentary about the opioid problem, so it was kind of a natural tie-in." 

"Oh, really?" I said, "I'll have to check that out. Well, I'd better let you get back to your shopping." 

"Yeah, nice chatting with you, man," he said, making me feel just a bit taller than I'd felt a moment ago.

At this point, Ms. Gyllenhaal had apparently gotten what she needed from the folks in the deli, and she was now checking out the meat cooler. Knowing that she had been a participant (and award recipient) in the previous summer's Middlebury New Filmmakers Festival, I asked if she was going to be a part of it again this year.

"Oh, maybe," she replied with a smile. "I hear Alexander Payne is going to be there, and he would be fun to see. Are you going?"

Whoa. Maggie Gyllenhaal asked me a question. Did the Earth's poles just switch places or something?

"Oh, cool," I replied, despite the fact that I had no idea who Alexander Payne was. "I plan to attend most of the festival, so maybe I'll see you there?" In reality, I had no solid plans to attend the festival—just the desire. Also, Jules and I were talking about moving back to Oregon, so it wasn't certain that we would even be in Middlebury in late August when the festival was scheduled to happen.

At this point, Ms. Gyllenhaal turned to her eldest daughter, who looked to be about 14, and asked her to go find something for her. Her daughter then turned to me and asked, "Do you know where the rosewater is?"

"I think I can help you find that," I said, which was literally true, since I was only kind of sure where it was. As I was leading her toward the "international aisle," I said to her, "It must drive you crazy having people thronging your parents everywhere you go."

"No, it's not so bad," she replied with a smile. 

Maybe not in Vermont, I thought, knowing how Vermonters tend to value their privacy and respect others' privacy equally. Or maybe not anywhere else, for that matter, since Ms. Gyllenhaal and Mr. Sarsgaard aren't mega-stars, and aren't readily recognizable to many.

We located the rosewater, she said thanks, and that was the last I saw of the family—until a couple of weeks later, when I spotted Ms. Gyllenhaal standing in front of the bread display, looking forlorn.

"Let me know if there's anything I can help you with," I offered.

"Oh, hi," she replied, smiling, apparently having actually recognized me from our previous encounter (yet another ego boost). I was determined not to be quite so awkward this time, if at all possible. "Can you tell me when this bread is going to be restocked?" she asked, pointing to an empty space on the shelf.

"Sure, let me go check with the bread person and get back to you." I walked briskly, but not too obviously briskly, over to the deli, where the bread person was working, got the needed information, and walked briskly, but not too briskly, back to where Ms. Gyllenhaal was still standing. "It'll be here on Tuesday around 10 a.m.," I informed her, with an absurdly exaggerated sense of pride and gratification.

"Oh, great—thanks," she said, smiling.

My day was made.

A couple of weeks later, I spotted Ms. Gyllenhaal in the produce section, said hello, and kept walking as nonchalantly as I could so as to reduce the chances that she would take out a restraining order on me. A few minutes later, while I was working in the breakfast aisle, she came up to me and asked, "Do you know where I might find the marshmallows?"

Marshmallows? I thought. She eats marshmallows and looks like that? Just kidding. I started to think that, but then stopped myself when I remembered that she and Mr. Sarsgaard had two kids. But yeah, maybe they all ate marshmallows and still looked like that, who knows?

"Right over here," I pointed. "Top shelf, totally hidden so no one can find 'em."

"Oh, thanks," she said, graciously smiling at my attempt at humor.

Trying to come up with some more small talk to keep the conversation going, I asked her, "Have you been affected by the flooding where you are?" (Pretty much the entire state of Vermont had been deluged that summer—30 inches of rain over a span of three months.) 

"No," she replied, grabbing a bag of marshmallows. "We're up pretty high in Ripton, so it hasn't been too bad. But a neighbor's house, which was downhill from a clearcut, was washed down the hill."

"Yikes," I said. "Well, glad to hear you were safe. Have you had any trouble getting into town and back?" I was shamelessly milking this conversation for all it was worth, while trying to appear not to be milking the conversation.

Nevertheless, Ms. Gyllenhaal managed to conceal her undoubtedly rabid indignation by replying kindly, "Yeah, Highway 125 was flooded out for a couple of days, but it's open now. How about you? Any flooding where you live?"

Whoa again. This famous person, this well-known and beloved actress who owed nobody anything except perhaps her parents and children, was actually giving me, an unknown and, on a good day, maybe beliked grocery stocker at the local food co-op, the proverbial time of day. 

I was in shock. But I had to haul myself out of my shock and say something, so I replied, "Uh, do you know where the Marble Works condos are, down by the falls?"

"Oh, yeah...I think so."

"My wife and I are renting a condo there, and so far the flooding hasn't affected us, either. Knock on...marble?" (OK, I made that last silly bit up, but you know how in retrospect you always come up with things you wish you'd said? Yeah, that's me. Every. Single. Time.) And then I added, for some unknown reason, "But we just learned that our daughter in Oregon is sick, so we're planning to move back there at the end of August."

"Oh, sorry to hear about your daughter," she replied, with a look of genuine concern. "But Oregon is beautiful."

"You've been there?"

"Yes, many times. I love it." What was she doing in Oregon, of all places? Making a movie, perhaps? I later Googled "Maggie Gyllenhaal movies made in Oregon," but the results were inconclusive.

"I lived there most of my life before we moved here two years ago," I replied. "We were hoping to find a place to buy here, but didn't have any luck." Sensing that I had now not only overshared but also overstayed my welcome, I said, "Well, it was very nice meeting you and talking to you. Have a good day, and maybe our paths will cross again before I leave."

"Yes, nice meeting you too," she said. "Take care."

Near the end of August, two days before I was set to move, our paths did cross once more—in the same spot where we had originally met: the deli. This time, however, we were both shopping. So, a level playing field, of sorts (ha ha).

"Well, hello there," I ventured. "I'm off to Oregon in two days."

"Oh, really? Well, the best of luck to you."

No worries on that score: I felt like I'd already had the best of luck.

Crossing the deadly Columbia Bar in a small cabin cruiser

When I was 18 I had a girlfriend whose parents liked me well enough, I think, but they didn't exactly approve of me. Probably because I was three years older than their daughter.  

Yeah, my girlfriend was 15. Jailbait. But hey, she was mature for her age! And I wasn't!

Anyway, despite his misgivings about me, my girlfriend's dad, Jean, got me a job as a lot boy at the car dealership where he was the sales manager. Lot boys are the guys or gals who move service customers' cars from the service department to the service bays...where they get serviced. After the cars were serviced, we'd move them out of the service bays to an outside lot, where we'd sometimes wash and vacuum them, depending on how pissed the customer already was about the repairs that were needed and/or how pissed he/she was going to be when he/she received the repair bill. In addition, I was also the designated morning courtesy driver, meaning I would drive the pissed-off customers from the dealership to wherever they needed or wanted to go.

One day, Jean ambled up to me in the service department and asked whether I'd be interested in joining him and some friends on an ocean salmon fishing trip on his cabin cruiser. As an avid fisherman and lover of both salmon and adventure—I had never been on a boat in the ocean—I of course said, "Sure!"

...and then immediately started having doubts. What had I gotten myself into? What were Jean's intentions? Was he a good skipper? Or would he be like the skipper in The Perfect Storm, who had been apprised of the weather forecast but decided to go fishing anyway (spoiler alert: everyone dies). Would I make a complete ass of myself by saying or doing something stupid? Get seasick and spend the entire day heaving ho? Catch zero fish while everyone else caught their limit? And so on.

Little did I know at the time that there was a much bigger concern than any of these: Boating down the Columbia River to the Pacific Ocean, we would be crossing the infamous Columbia Bar, whose nickname, I learned later, is Graveyard of the Pacific. It earned that moniker by swallowing thousands of ships—most of them much larger than the dinghy we would be fishing from—and drowning more than 700 people. There are professional "bar pilots" who are paid $180,000 a year to help guide boats across the bar, sometimes by landing helicopters on boats in distress and commandeering them.

If all that isn't enough to scare any sane person away from trying to cross the bar, consider this tidbit from Wikipedia: 

The nearby United States Coast Guard Station...is renowned for operating in some of the roughest sea conditions in the world, and is home to the National Motor Lifeboat School. It is the only school for rough weather and surf rescue operation in the US, and is respected internationally as a center of excellence for heavy boat operations.

This wasn't us, but it could've been.

So the question, then, is: What in HELL was I thinking saying "Sure!" to this particular invitation? And further: What in HELL was Jean thinking when he invited me? "This'll be a great way to get rid of Rick and make it look like an accident!" The perfect murder!

The answer, of course, was that, since I was blissfully ignorant of the Columbia Bar's reputation, I decided to just play along with Jean's nefarious scheme and....see what happened. Perfect Storm be damned!

And what happened was...pretty much nothing, in terms of sinking or drowning.* I did, however, catch a salmon (a 21-inch silver)—and a baby shark (mini-Jaws!). Did I get seasick? Nah. Did I make a fool of myself? Probably, but nobody called me out on it. Did Jean make a hard turn and dump me overboard? Nope. In fact, Jean and I kinda...bonded. Or at least we moved an inch or two in a more-or-less positive direction: He quit fretting so much about my age, and I quit fretting that he would turn me in for statutory...thoughts.

Considering everything else that could've happened, I was OK with that.

*Apologies for the anticlimactic climax.

That time I got to ride in a hot-air balloon

My parents used to live on two acres next to a small municipal airport in rural Hubbard, Oregon. My mom used the acreage to garden and raise chickens and horses, while my dad used the airport to fly a Piper four-seater he co-owned with a neighbor. My mom also volunteered as an English tutor at the elementary school across the street, and my dad was working toward his instrument rating (flying solely by reference to instruments) so he could become a flight instructor. I would often spend the night at "the farm," where I enjoyed being around the animals and occasionally getting a ride in an airplane. 

One spring morning after spending the night, I looked out the bedroom window and saw what appeared to be a hot-air balloon touching down at the elementary school. I got dressed and hurried outside to see what was up. Sure enough, it was a hot-air balloon, and it was indeed touching down at the edge of the schoolyard.

So of course I had to get a closer look. As I neared the balloon, I saw that it was emblazoned on two sides (balloons have sides?) with the Oregon Lottery logo. I didn't have a camera on me and I can't find a photo of the balloon online,* but the logo looked kind of like this:

Ironically, a couple of years earlier I had designed and produced political-style buttons that mocked the Oregon Lottery. The buttons featured a hand-drawn facsimile of the logo accompanied by the words, LET'S PLAY OREGON LOTTERY. GIVE ME A DOLLAR. WASN'T THAT FUN?

Irony aside, I decided to sidle on up to the balloon and ask its pilot what the deal was. First impressions: contrary to the hot-air balloon's image as something quiet and peaceful, the damn thing was incredibly noisy. You don't want to be standing anywhere near it with your ears uncovered when the propane burner fires. Think Wizard of Oz balloon times 100.

Between blasts of hot air, I managed to get my question in: "What are you doing here? Are you giving rides?"

To my utter astonishment, the pilot replied that he was just practicing landing and taking off, and that yes, he would be happy to give me a short ride. "You OK with just going up a little ways and then coming back down?" he asked.

Dude, whatever. I've never even been close to a hot-air balloon, let alone been offered a ride in one, however short. "Yeah, that sounds fine," I answered, trying to conceal my excitement.

"OK," he said, opening the hinged door to the basket, "climb aboard and we'll lift off."

So I climbed into the basket, gave the pilot a thumbs up, and...grabbed the edge of the basket with both hands...as if that would save me in the event of a crash landing.

Remember I mentioned how noisy the propane burner was? Now, standing right below it, I wished I had something to cover my ears other than my hands. I shifted from trying to conceal my excitement to trying to conceal my concern about going deaf. But was I going to complain about it? Nah. I WAS RIDING IN A GODDAM HOT-AIR BALLOON! My friends would be so envious! Readers of my blog would be so envious! If only blogs existed!

WHOA...we're going up! My heart started whooshing. Wait...that was the propane burner again. My heart started pounding. And then that stupid song "Up, Up, and Away" found its way into my head. 

Just kidding! All I could think about was how cool it was to be standing in a wicker basket attached to a big, colorful balloon—a balloon—that was rather rapidly rising off the ground into...

The air. We were a hundred feet up in the air already. Holy shit. What if the burner runs out of propane? Or the balloon pops? That 14-foot fall I once took from a scaffolding will pale in comparison. 

I had just begun imagining how many bones I would break in a 100-foot fall when the balloon slowly started descending. The pilot must've read my mind. Or my face.

Safely on the ground again, I thanked the pilot for the experience and made a hasty exit out the hinged door. Then I stood for a few minutes and watched as the balloon took off once again, rose into the sky, and gradually disappeared...maybe to land at the edge of another schoolyard and give some other naive thrill-seeker a lift? 

I'm not big on gambling, so I've never really played the Oregon Lottery. But in a way I won a piece of it that day—by getting to ride in their hot-air balloon. And it didn't cost me a dollar!

*I contacted the Oregon Lottery, via a public records request form, to inquire as to whether they could share a photo of the balloon with me. The Lottery's Public Records Specialist very kindly wrote back to inform me that no one there had any recollection of such a balloon and could find no record of it. "Our best guess is that we may have hired a vendor to add our logo to a balloon for a time as we had similarly done with large boats and classic cars in the past for advertising," she concluded.

Bill Scream, Rusty Bolt, Dr. Demento, and me

Following is an email I sent to radio personality Dr. Demento on July 19, 2021. Unfortunately, I have yet to hear anything back, except...radio silence. 

Greetings, Doctor,

On April 17, 2021, I posted a silly thing on Facebook about a rusty bolt I had found in my yard. The post went something like this:

Yesterday I found this old, rusty bolt lying on the ground on our property, in a spot that Jules [my wife] and I have passed by several times a day for the 10+ years we've lived here. Where did it come from? It looks like it's been underground for decades, but if so, how did it work its way to the surface just yesterday?

Apparently Neil Young was right: Rust never sleeps.

One of the comments on my post came from an old friend and colleague (we worked on Claymation films together back in the ‘70s and ‘80s) named Bill Scream. It went something like this:

I think it’s a sign. I found one recently, myself. It must be for very special people. The Ponderers of the Rusty Bolts.

…to which my wife replied:

Hey, great name for a band. Or just "The Rusty Bolt Band"

A week later, I received an email from Bill Scream. Attached was an MP3 file of a song he had composed, performed, and produced in honor of my rusty bolt, called…wait for it...“Rusty Bolt.” 

It was brilliant. And hilarious. And very catchy. So catchy that Bill told me his 6-year-old grandkid had memorized it within a few hours and was singing it ad nauseam all over the house.

A few days ago, I remembered the guy who had launched Weird Al’s career—you—and thought, “Hmmm…”

I asked Bill, via email, for permission to send the song to you, and he replied, "Oh sure...50 years...more than 50 years...I have cranked out songs, jingles, soundtracks and it comes down to some stupid bolt a guy trips over one day. I had nothing to do and no one to complain to, so I knock out a song and that’s what people will know me by for the rest of my days!” In a subsequent email, following much cajoling on my part, he wrote, "I can see I’ll never hear the end of this if I don’t agree to your wild scheme. So...I’m in!"

So. Here’s the song, along with the lyrics and a jpeg of the rusty bolt itself. And of course, I’m cc-ing Bill Scream himself, just to keep this wild scheme on the up and up.

Enjoy! And thanks for listening.

Rick Cooper

RUSTY BOLT

By Bill Scream (© 2021 Scream Music)

Well I ran across this rusty bolt while walkin’ in the rain

Now where it’s from or what it’s for, I really can’t explain.

It coulda been a linchpin on a mule train headed west

Or somethin’ off a logger’s tool that made its final rest.

Then buried and forgotten under time and years of dust

Then dug up by some gopher, kickin’ out that bolt of rust.

Rusty bolt

Rusty bolt

Ponderin’ that rusty bolt

There’s no tellin’ how the story goes, there’s no one left to tell it

So I’ll stick it on some driftwood, call the E Bay, try to sell it.

I’ll say it washed up years ago from the shipwreck Iredale

Then found its way, I don’t know how, clear up this lonely trail.

Ya gotta think whose hands have touched this rusty piece of gear.

I’m still just ponderin’ that rusty bolt, I wonder why it’s here?

Rusty bolt

Rusty bolt

Ponderin' that rusty bolt

The eponymous rusty bolt (photo by yours truly)

Addenda

Before sending the email to Dr. Demento, I had asked for Bill's permission and, in case Demento went for it, whether Bill had copyrighted his song. Here is his reply in its entirety:

Oh sure...as my old friend Paul would start his lament. 50 years...more than 50 years...I have cranked out songs, jingles, soundtracks and it comes down to some stupid bolt a guy trips over one day. I had nothing to do and no one to complain to, so I knock out a song and that’s what people will know me by for the rest of my days!

Is it copyrighted...are you kidding me?!? That would take effort! I was once told if you mailed it to someone and show the postage date, that established time of conception.

And Dr. Demento, how old IS that guy now? I listened to him in college, so maybe it’s “son of”.

Anyhoo, I’m absolutely honored. Do we need a video?

I’m in and out all day today but would love to pursue your rusty idea!  :)

After I sent the actual email to Dr. Demento and cc'd Bill, Bill replied: "Head in hand, laughing and crying at the same time." 

A few weeks later, having heard nothing back from Dr. Demento, I re-sent my original email to him, prefaced thusly:

Hello! I’m resending this in hopes that you’ll at least consider the OREGON angle here…Bill Scream grew up in McMinnville and lives in Portland; and I grew up in Portland (my alma mater is Reed’s “rival," Lewis & Clark College) and live in Kings Valley, Oregon (where I found the rusty bolt). Surely, the home state connection has to be worth something, no? : )

Rick Cooper

As of December 11, 2023, still no response. : (

The fabulous Ms. Quittner and her Magnetica

A few months after Jules and I moved from Oregon to Burlington, Vermont, we were talking about how unfamiliar everything was and how out of place we often felt. So I decided to place a personals ad on a local internet bulletin board called Front Porch, inviting other recent transplants from the West Coast to meet with us and discuss our respective experiences. 

A woman named Katherine Quittner was one of three people who responded to the ad. She wrote that she had moved from Venice, California, to Burlington two years earlier and was interested in meeting. We set up a time and a place to meet, and exchanged photos of ourselves (and our dogs) so we would recognize each other when we got together. We would meet for lunch at Stone Soup on College St., and we'd have about an hour to get acquainted before Ms. Quittner would have to "go to work" nearby.

Ms. Quittner was about five-foot-four, had curly white hair, and appeared to be in her mid-60s. And she was a dynamo of creative energy. During our brief visit we learned that, like us, she was a climate refugee, having moved to Vermont to escape the West Coast's ever-increasing heat and wildfires. We also learned that she was a musician of some renown, and that she had recently retired from a 20-year career as a film music editor (the person who selects all the musical pieces for a movie). Among her many Hollywood music editing credits: City of Angels, Father of the Bride, Hocus Pocus, A River Runs Through It, and Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

Lunch over, we were getting up to bus our dishes and say our goodbyes when Ms. Quittner asked whether we'd be interested in seeing a musical instrument she had invented. She said it was called the Magnetica, and it was situated in her studio, just upstairs from where we'd had lunch.

Umm...yes? Was there some other possible answer?

So, upstairs we went for a private viewing of Ms. Quittner's invention.

First impressions: Wow. It's...beautiful. And mystical. And fabulous. My jaw was on the floor.

Ms. Quittner demonstrating The Magnetica (photo lifted from her website).

"You invented this? And built it? What does it do? What are the 12 chairs surrounding it for?"

"Yes, I invented it," Ms. Quittner replied, perhaps more patiently than I deserved, "and built it. It makes music. And the 12 chairs are for the audience."

Duh. No more stupid questions, I vowed to myself.

"When can we hear a demonstration?" (That wasn't so stupid, right?)

"I'm thinking about having a concert in a few weeks or so, but I'm not very good at marketing so I'm not sure how to get the word out."

Now all I wanted to do was figure out a way to help her get the word out. But it had been a few years since I had done any professional-level marketing, so instead of offering to help I said, "Would you be willing to let us know when you have a date set? Maybe by emailing us?"

"Sure," she replied. 

Cool. We were going to be among the first to see and hear Ms. Quittner's beautiful, mystical, fabulous invention in action. 

I. Couldn't. Wait.

So, just to make sure the deal was sealed, I followed up the next day with an email to Ms. Quittner:

Hi Katherine,

It was such a pleasure meeting you yesterday, breaking bread, getting acquainted, and being invited up to your studio to see your intriguing invention. We look forward to getting together with you again sometime, and maybe being a part of the lucky audience of 12 who get to see you in concert. We're in the middle of preparing our condo to list this July and, as we talked about, find a property in Middlebury. If we don’t connect before all of that happens, we will get ahold of you once we’ve landed in our new place. 

Until then,

Rick & Jules

Ms. Quittner replied almost immediately:

Hey Jules and Rick,

It was fun to meet you too. Good luck finding your hearts' desires in Middlebury. I'm sure with an open mind and a fat wallet you can succeed.

I, for one, am grateful that my lucky real estate investments of decades ago, put me into such a good position to continue this luck. Also, I think that practically, the people that can think clearly about the future will be the ones that have an easier time surviving. Watta Drama. 

I hope my healing musical invention works. It would bum me out a lot if it didn’t, but then I can do it with the tuning forks so why not with the special sounds I make? ok I am rambling.

Good luck and see you round.

Katherine

Great. We were in.

Or so I thought. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts to stay in touch with Ms. Quittner after we moved to Middlebury (35 miles south of Burlington), she vanished into thin air. She had mentioned when we met that she was planning a trip back to Venice in a few weeks, so maybe she went and...never came back? Or maybe her mother in Florida passed away and she got distracted with memorial arrangements. Or maybe she gave a concert, forgot to invite us, and her Magnetica failed to deliver...which bummed her out so much she built a teletransporter and beamed herself back to her home planet?

OK, I veered off into absurdity with that last conjecture, although there was something otherworldly about Ms. Quittner. But whatever. We probably never will get to see the Magnetica in action, but I try to console myself with the fact that we were among the very few people (on this planet, anyway) who got see it in person.

Katherine Quittner, wherever you are, may your fabulous spirit live on through your music.

Addenda

Ms. Quittner's website describes the Magnetica as follows:

The Magnetica is a music-generating machine with a capacity for sound healing. It incorporates ancient instrumental forms enhanced with modern electronic capabilities. It is an electro-acoustic instrument that uses a mix of triggers and controllers to generate unusual electronic and acoustic sounds. It is the past, the present and the future in one place.

It is an instrument designed for improvisation, and for interacting with its audience. The Magnetica offers new ways to make music. Performers move on its platform in order to produce sounds.

The 12 strings are held by 10 foot long, bow shaped arcs, and its natural wood base forms a large resonant chamber. The acoustics are enhanced with antique Tibetan prayer bowls.

You can see photos of Ms. Quittner and the Magnetica in concert here, and hear a sample recording here.