Blog
Chris’s collected works are a kind of patchwork quilt, stitched together from the fabric of his opinions, be they political or practical, his historical ponderings, personal anecdotes, genealogical forays, and vivid travelogues.
Each piece, no matter how small or seemingly incidental, contributes to the broader narrative of a man who has roamed far and wide, both across the world and the uncharted terrain of his own restless mind. Together, they form a portrait of a life spent in pursuit, of understanding, of connection, and, perhaps most of all, of a good story well told.
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“These will occur in the inquisition-esque torture chamber known to modern man as the economy cabin, an airborne oubliette where elbows skirmish in trivial turf wars, where the coughs of strangers mist the air with democratic impartiality, and where flight attendants, paid handsomely to remind us of our low place in the cosmic hierarchy, glide…
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byJ.C.White – 2025 Data in isolation is meaningless. Only data partnered with context and a halfway sensible idea can pretend it knows what it is doing. I’m fairly sure I learned that from Mr. Rogers when I was five years old. And while it’s an idea that’s been percolating in my brain for a long
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A lone rider often passed through, his horse ribbed and reluctant, the kind that seemed imagined from yellowing parchment and a tourists fatigue. He called himself Juan Christoforo de la Blanco, though none could recall him among the living of the village.
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byJ.C.White – 2025 LEONARDO da VINCI ONCE SAID, “Nothing can be loved or hated unless it is first understood.” I have always believed that applies to nearly everything: politics and pandemics, people and art, even food that looks suspiciously alive. Travel, then, is the only way to make peace with the world’s strangeness. Reading about a place
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“Take but degree away, untune that string, and, hark, what discord follows!”
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It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that word. But it would be the last time I’d ever hear it in the same way.
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All want to teach. Nobody’s trying to learn; and everyone’s trying to preserve their personal version of existence.
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A family of six with generational hare-lip scars cut their faces like old whipmarks. Two cousins sat side by side, one cross-eyed inward, the other outward, so neither met the other’s gaze. Children scratched ringworm bellies with dirty fingernails.
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“Karl Marx, still a century away, would have scribbled “good idea” in the future of marginalia.”
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byJ.C.White – 2025 Josh and Bubba ran from the lot in the night. The man they’d sold the Buick to was after them with a wrench, and the Buick itself had died on the corner of Vine and Broadway with steam in its throat like a slaughtered calf. The men cut across the road, bellies
Ramblings & Revelations 
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