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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“The vial lay atop her dresser, open, half full still, the label worn by sweat but legible all the same: belladonna. I’d not seen it before. It had not been mine.”
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He smelled wood and cordite and the last supper’s lard still caking the pan.
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This clearly is a kind of faith, and a faith moreover that is here earnestly recommended by two scientists who are aggressively contemptuous of faith.
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By morning, the stranger was gone. But a silence had settled over the town, an unease that slithered beneath the ordinary. Doors opened slower, conversations trailed off mid-sentence.
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“Yes’em. We spent our whole lives calling it old wives’ talk. Said it weren’t real. Said no woman ever died from it, so why worry? But it is real. And they are dying.”
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Writing is exile. Painting is penance. Music is the weeping of a soul that cannot be held. The artist lives in a room with no windows, praying, always praying, for someone to knock on the other side of the wall.
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byChrisWhite (2025) They called him Big Foot. Not because he smelled of pine needles and wet dog or made a mess of chicken coops, but because he left prints the size of two dinner plates and walked with his chin high and shoulders back, like God bequeathed him dominion over grave and gravity. Bigfoot wasn’t…
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He exhaled once. A crow somewhere flapped, then stopped. It’s wings drooping like sickness.
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Here, the dead would not be disturbed. Here, no shovel or knife would defile their rest for the sake of medical anatomy or curiosity. Their peace would be absolute.
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These ads paint sickness in high definition, then frame the cure in airbrushed smiles and sunset-lit bike rides. A mild skin irritation becomes a “serious dermatological burden.” A bad mood? Clinical depression. Tired at work? Narcolepsy. There’s always a name, always a pill, and always a co-pay just around the corner.
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“Justice, you are no storm god, no angel of vengeance— but the still pivot upon which history turns…” — Chris White
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“Sugar, some things take longer to bloom. You don’t pull on a green tomato. You wait. You tend. You hush to listen.”
Ramblings & Revelations 
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