Not that fog has settled but I haven't been looking to see.
There was work when it was there, but mostly an unfeeling sadness, a certain untraceable feeling of desolation has gripped me, rendering most in my day a shade of unenthusiastic gray, hopeless and desperately defeating. It was that, most of all, which kept me unresponsive to therapeutic treatment of any kind.
And yet, I wonder if I would wish for any other situation to be better in! Death is the ultimate brother of life -festooned or bare!
I mean there are comfort zones and there are comfort zones. Mine is typically different from the other comfort zones, in that, nothing 'exciting' happens in it. I hear of exciting things, things which are referred to as exciting, and an impulse prompts me, briefly, to share in the rush of excitement. Presently comes this poise zone, - the citta area of personal reflection, wherein you weigh and measure things against your world-view.  That often sobers me down.
I had a mind to go meet people about Anish Kapoor, and meet the man himself if that was possible.  But I decided not to. I watched instead the many videos of Mr. Kapoor on line and his work and his views about them. I saw while I watched Anish Kapoor videos that my will was there, refusing to be influenced by the excitable jargon of Mr. Kapoor. And yet, I also saw that it was not averse or hostile towards him. He,  (my unmistakably  masculine will ) was there, strong and calm, waiting for my reference. Had I decided to be taken in by it all, I would have willed a brief journey to Delhi.
Anish Kapoor's work, like most modern and post modern conceptual work alienates me. It may be said about that kind of work that it is precisely the feeling of alienation in modern world which is captured in them by the artists who produce them. If it came to that, then the logical question is, why go tete a tete before monumental alienation? It is enough that a huge inanimate building is intimidating enough. Why face an active power of alienation if not to get more alienated? Who the hell would want it except a pervert? In fact, why produce alienation? For whose gratification if not those whose life is so full that they crave alienation imagery? The rich are sunk in the mire of their ambition and their greed.
But perhaps there is more to it. Or is there? Whatever  more there is to it, I get it, but I prefer not face it because, truly, those things have ceased to excite me. I know the limits of fame and riches. They come nowhere close to the real questions which sphinx me. It makes little or no difference that my corpse lay in a sandalwood casket or neglected and wet by some drain.
I admire F.N. Souza. I admired his unrelenting arrogance to live on his own terms. I heard that when he died in Mumbai there was no one except a few who had dealings with him.
There we are! In the final analysis, there is nothing to be excited about. Goa was, but that was when I was younger and more naive.