Those words are from New York Times scribe David Carr in the excellent picture Page One.
He was referring to his life and if you've followed his story, you'd agree. It is textured.
Just like everyone else.
Seems like Someone or something or we or all of the above or some of the above are forever shaking the can, rattling that anxious little precious bead of ours deep within and spraying on a fine coat of life day after day after day.
Mostly without much examination.
Sooner or later it ends up one battered mix or another of textured life.
And with each fine coat there's been a choice of how it's primed.
Fear or trust.
Addicted or free.
Despair or hope.
Greed or charity.
Brooding or giddy.
Hate or love.
Tartuffe or humble.
Indifferent or grateful.
Resentful or forgiving.
Veiled or authentic.
Self or souls.
There's no running or hiding from this. Each life lived is textured.
The project is knowing how each day is ours to prime.
Reading suggestion Love, Your Mother