In memory of Kurt Brown

Last week, author, poet and good friend Kurt Brown died after a sudden illness. Every night this week at midnight Pacific, I am posting something to honor his memory including one of his poems each day. If you wish to read tonight’s reflection, hit More.

About three years ago, Kurt and Laure-Anne wanted to move from the East Coast to some place in southern California to be near Laure-Anne’s daughter, who lives and works in Los Angeles. When Kurt first informed me of their intention, I immediately blurted out:

“Santa Barbara.”

The city is special to me. I met Rebecca in Ventura where we were both living. When we started to date, whenever we got an off-night from work, we would drive up the 101 a half-hour to Santa Barbara. Wander up and down State Street. See a movie at the Arlington Theater. Dine at any number of charming bistros. Catch live music at a club. Spend hours browsing books in the Earthling Bookstore (sadly, now closed). Basically this:

We spent the first night of our honeymoon in Santa Barbara. I played music in numerous clubs in Santa Barbara. In short, I love Santa Barbara.

So I pitched the town hard to Kurt. They went out for an exploratory visit. Checked out Ojai, Carpenteria, and other communities. But they were smitten, too, and in 2010, Santa Barbara became their new home.

Little did I know what I had unleashed. Kurt would send me photos of the bounty he’d harvest from fruit trees in his back yard, literally dozens of photographs, month after month like these, persimmons, figs, lemons [the small one from a store, the big one from their yard]:

Kurt would forward me photos of jacaranda trees in bloom:

And of course, the beach on which he would walk frequently:

Kurt would leave me voice mails like this one from February 26, 2013:

“Hi, Scott, it’s Kurt. Just thinking about you. I’m up here at the park above the bay. See the Channel Islands in the distance. Not a cloud in the sky. Pelicans floating around. Beautiful blue water. A big eucalyptus tree right in front of me. You know, Santa Barbara time. Come on out, Scott. Come on out.”

All part of his propaganda campaign to get me there. Not that I needed convincing. That was my dream: To move back to California, to Santa Barbara. Part of that vision involved Kurt, he and I meeting on State Street for an afternoon glass of red wine, talking about our writing, and reminiscing about the past like the couple of old farts we had become.

Then at the end of April, Kurt went into the hospital for some tests. Seven weeks later, at the age of 69, Kurt passed away in a place he had grown to love… with its dazzling sun, azure skies, and endless ocean.

Aubade With Frogs’ Eggs

By Kurt Brown

Each morning I have to reinvent
myself from scattered memories, desires,
dreams into which I’m atomized
like water fractured into mist.

Slowly thoughts recollect themselves
in my still-sleeping brain,
appear like spring-life
in the tarry depths of a lake:

a single thought glitters a moment,
then another, whole schools
of jittery perceptions running together
until I’m almost awake —

That’s what I feel like — Spring — 
imagining nameless weeds
sprouting through cracks in my being,
bright explosions of frogs’ eggs.

But there are parts I can’t find: whole chunks
have fallen off during the night
and rolled into darkness.
There’s less and less to gather.

So I think of myself as autumn,
spring’s profligate buddy, the other side
of blooming. Then I’m tired
of thinking of myself as the seasons.

I’m just a man, waking up,
counting himself lucky to be alive,
stretching an arm, a leg,
as if he had shrunk during the night.

The trouble with the world is
it pops back up each morning
like one of those fold-out birthday cards — 
Surprise! Surprise!

The old landscape leaps into view.
It’s the one I used to love,
the one in which anything might happen
if I’m faithful enough, and patient.

I yawn like a baby
sucking its first breath, and open my eyes:
there it is again to claim me,
the daily annunciation of the mundane.

And here comes first light,
reaching through doors and windows
into my shadowy room
to gather me up in brilliant arms.

I’ll never spend those warm afternoons in Santa Barbara with Kurt, but it pleases me no end knowing that every morning for the last three years of Kurt’s life, he awoke to the “brilliant arms” of that small corner of Eden.

You may learn more about Kurt by going here.

An obituary in the Aspen Daily News.

A remembrance of Kurt from his friend and cohort Michael Shay.

You may find some of Kurt’s original poetry as well as numerous books he has edited here.

For Part 1 of my tribute to Kurt, you may go here.

For Part 2, go here.

For Part 3, go here.

For Part 4, go here.

For Part 5, go here.

Godspeed, Kurt.
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