Evolve: A Gay Man's Guilt with the Loss of His Son
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About this ebook
Christopher Gundry
CHRISTOPHER GUNDRY Christopher (Botsi) Gundry was born in Los Angeles in April 1977, and passed away September, 2010. He was a Seminarian at St. John's College, in Camarrillo, Ca. He received two Masters Degrees in Education from Loyola University, after deciding against the priesthood as a profession. He was married to his wife Jule for 6 years, and they had a daughter Eva, now 7 years old. They lived In Encino, Ca during the duration of their marriage. WILLIAM GUNDRY I have a B.A. in Philosophy, minor in English Literature. I recently experienced a personal tragedy in my family, namely the suicide of my youngest son. He was promised by my youngest daughter to publish his M.S which he completed prior to his death, which in turn was entrusted to me. So, as a matter of course, I write this story, overlapping his story, incorporating anecdotes, snippets from his life intertwined with mine. I have three other children and we are a close knit family, sharing this burden, trying to dissipate the pain without causing too much burden on each of us. I live and work in Los Angeles.
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Evolve - Christopher Gundry
© 2012 by William Gundry for the estate of Christopher Gundry.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Published by AuthorHouse 09/21/2012
ISBN: 978-1-4772-6308-2 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4772-6307-5 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012915353
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
Narcisse And Socrates
The Day The World Stopped
I Thought He Was Kidding
On Being Gay
Billie
Rainbow Spirits
Maxy
Electricity
June
Solitude
Bali
Train Dances
Lost Angels
Father Larry
Jet Skis
Red
The Rector
Larry
Day Of Recollection
Dinner
Christian
Benediction
Endlessly Life-Long
Canvas. The. Wind
The. Force Be. With. You
Blue Solace
She Called Me
Mom
Egg Shell Mattress
Lynn
If It Takes Forever
My Son-Billie
About The Authors
Narcisse and Socrates
Sons and lovers there was a time, tapestries were unbound, when later realize if sweetness were to engender the man, if it were, enclose, within himself, then, he would still miss her presence. Narcisse laying bare, to arms, he sees another not to reflect, so wonder not its himself he loves and she, scheming to get back, him. But know not the way only by use of disguise gently over not, dare its name, through to guidance, patiently, kill that, to dress, the charm-so as to will to love, not love to will.
The Day The World Stopped
It was a hot day in Los Angeles. Temperatures sored above the 100 degree mark for a week. He came back to live with us. His hair was semi long and he played foreigner songs with a radio he brought outside. He was wired, and a number of things bothered me. We had a talk about drugs. He got upset when I talked to him why the 60’s failed. I tried to tell him that the large picture why the 60’s failing, mirrors the microcosm of why daily heavy users become dysfunctional. As I write this, I become conscious of what’s happening with Istarra, as being in a similar situation. And that’s a possibility I hope will not come about. He drove up in his jeep and cheerfully waved top us. He thanked us for taking him in, and couldn’t believe my ears saying this. I told him he is always welcome at home, but I could see from the expression on his face that something was going on. The Pet Shop Boys concert at the Greek Theatre was equally disquieting. He kept going to his car between sets, and taking drags of marijuana. I could see he was enjoying himself, but I felt somehow unnerved. There was a lot of gay men at the concert, and I could tell they admired him for his looks and his physique. Looking back on that day, I wish there was more communication between him and me. The set It’s a Sin
throbbed in the warm night air, with the classic feel of the Greek Theatre slowly fading into the lush, jasmine scented air, over the various shades of green with black outlines of the trees and shrubbery and he was gone a long time. I asked him after it was all over, to go into the hills, like with Terri a friend from the 60’s, who liked to hang out there, and he declined but on walking down to his parked car stopped at the Dresden, a German restaurant on North Vermont, he asked me if I wanted to go in there. As we had dinner I said no… There was a block to our communication mainly out of an implicit understanding that it would probably result in a flow of disguised images, referring to recent events, mainly things he was reluctant to talk about. These images may have been subtly acquired through the 60’s, of a free flow of language, implying a special form of communication, But this missed opportunity at direct communication was also due to hidden motives, aspirations, projections of maleness implicitly shared, and not easily disclosed. Part was generational gap, as between my own father and myself, likewise never expressly touching on it, but made by implicit references. More subtle than Dorian Grey, or even in Death in Venice, it reflected the undisclosed reflections compensated musical creativity, literary subterfuge, masking motives purposefully, enigmatic. My father, while not hoping to set a trap, succeeded to create a closet full of indecipherable double meanings. When I think of my father, his life being a pseudo Proustian—artistic sadness, a letting go of a belatedly romantic flow of his life as art, do I start to understand him.
I drove a bus back then. When we separated, he was the one to throw a fit. He didn’t want to be with his grandparents, with whom they shared a duplex in the Wilshire district. The Wilshire district used to be the uptown to which Los Angeles aspired to live in. It had a feel of art nouveau, with elaborate freezes, and it beckoned to a spirit of yesterday, highlighting the high times of top hats, Charleston, and a feeling that things will go on, with the expectations of times ahead, of. An undefined melange of a landscape of invention, the newly emerging art form of the mystique of the movies, the muscle magazines were coming out, with only the barest essentials left to the imagination. Billy,—me—in Chris’ later imagination was a little lost boy, who has been always remembered as lost in a dream yet undefined. I was so important for him. I always realized it, yet never really knew it, because he always was away. He came home one day, saying, mom, dad, I would like to take you to a movie. It was
American Beauty", a story of unrequited homosexual love ending in disaster. It should have been recognized