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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byJ.C.White – 2026 Nature herself has supplied most men with just enough common sense to write a law and almost none with enough justice to write a good one. This, I know, seems at first an unnecessarily harsh judgment upon mankind. But mankind has survived harsher judgments. Our difficulty may have begun at birth. Nature sends certain animals…
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byJ.C.White – 2026 There is an old oak standing at the edge of a forgotten Tennessee field where a quiet man sometimes comes to sit and read. Not some ordinary field. A field littered with broken pieces of carved granite and marble, barely marking the graves of men that history would just as soon forget. …
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An Appalachian Domestic Tragedy Inspired by a LinkedIn post by an editor who finds various misspellings and makes humorous posts about them. When I saw that someone had misspelled “Raven” as “Ramen,” a poem was born. byJ.C. White – 2026 Once upon a humid evening, while I languished, tired and poor, Brooding over debts and…
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byJ.C. White – 2026 NOTE: Similar to the gothic noir piece I wrote on my recent trip to Madrid where I used a Spanish version of my own name as the protagonist, I decided to write this one while visiting Tuscany, using a playful epithetic Italian version of my name, inspired by the old city…
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A Novel by J.C. White The town is small. The rules are ancient. The heat; it’s personal. IT’S 1942. THE WAR IS LOUD—BUT IN A SMALL SOUTHERN TOWN IN TENNESSEE, THE QUIETER CRUELTY IS FAR WORSE. Shirley Ragland is fifteen, brilliant, restless, and trapped in a world that thinks smart girls should marry quietly and…
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La noche oscura del alma by J.C. White THE NIGHT did not begin so much as it refused to end. I was awake on the porch with the house behind me finally quiet; mi casa sosegada, the old kind of quiet that settles only after every other body has surrendered. The boards held the day’s…
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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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