Another breaking wave, another moody sky.

I’ve been contemplating my obsession with studying waves and horizons—trying to capture motion and the loss of edges. I can’t seem to shake how water, in its many forms, possesses my mind, body, and soul. For six years, I dreamt vividly of cliffs and stormy skies, long before I actually lived on this tempestuous coast, surrounded by the constant symphony of wind and surging sea.

I wonder if it is simply a reflection of my own unpredictable body, how I am so manifestly at the mercy of forces outside myself. The ocean is more than just the sea; it is a continuous entity interacting with our atmospheric bubble, subject to what happens in Saudi Arabia as much as what happens right here on the Dingle Peninsula.

The sea feels unruly, erratic, constantly in flux. Yet, it is in a strange, intimate attunement with the world at large. My body is much the same. Just as a shift in barometric pressure or a sudden glare of sunlight can throw me into a flare, I exist in a strangely deep attunement to the tides of our rippling atmosphere—its atomized moisture, its transference of light, its constant undulations of wind and cloud. My body reacts just as the waves change direction, yielding to the magnetism of the moon and the kinetic pressure of the wind.

Or perhaps it is simply because I love the sea. Perhaps my own tidal strangeness gives me a kinship, a yearning to remain forever close to the wailing crash of water against stone, to the wind that whips around corners, sculpting thorn trees and willows.

Either way, this haunting consanguinity continues. I have yet to break the spell. Expect more skies, more seas, more water and atmosphere in motion. With every brushstroke, I am trying to pass on even a fraction of this beautiful haunting to you.