The approach into Queenstown is heavy with fog, both outside the car and inside your head. The sun lingers on the horizon as if reluctant to leave. Adam pulls up to the house hosting you and you accidentally slam the car door getting out. You shudder at the sound, and the feeling of gravel and sleet slushing underfoot compounds a vague discomfort.

Stepping through the unlocked side door and remembering the owner’s text instructing you not to use the main entrance sparks visions of people spilling down the front stairs. A shake of the head clears the way and you slip off your boots.

You begin to drift through the house, ghosts accompany you on either side. Your ghosts, the house’s ghosts - familiar ghosts who coo at the warm air and cozy furnishings. Together you float over the floorboards, moving like a feather tied on the end of a string to entertain a cat - curious, light, gentle, ready to leap out of reach at any moment.

Gliding into the living room, you are greeted with gentle flames in the fireplace and a massive window framing the snow sprinkled shoulders of Mt Owen. The room swells with heat. You expand into the hallway and further into a bedroom. A biting cold has crept into the edges of this space. Head crooked, you notice a fireplace taped over with layers of Christmas wrapping paper. Glancing up at a small mirror hanging askew above the mantelpiece you spin away from the reflection of someone who isn’t you. In the middle of the room the bed is like a mirage, and you realise someone has already turned on the electric blanket. A chaise lounge runs next to the bed and leads you to a cupboard you probably shouldn’t open but do and find empty. You spin around and around in the air where hot and cold collide and decide this is where you’ll sleep.

Someone’s left shoulder delicately passes through your right as they head back to the heat. You follow and stretch your hand out to glide along the wall panels. You are overcome with the urge to make your fingers run as if you are a child staring out the window of a driving car, pretending you are outside running free and fast, your little hand on the door, fingers jumping fences and trees, and hopping up onto powerlines - taking part in the motion of the world whirling past. Fingers running in here though, move with you at your pace, and you meld together into a version of you that now views this childhood game as something far more meaningful.

The hot/cold air vortex sends you past the fire into the dining room, where a table that takes you back to a holiday home from your childhood presents a note written by the living host of the house.

Hi ladies, enjoy your stay. Keep the fire going, there is plenty of wood.

…you’re a lady this time, it has been decided for you.

Your subtle shadow stretches away to inspect the fire. Excited, she studies the different sizes of wood piled beside the mantelpiece, attempting to figure out how to perfect firekeeping without having ever attempted firekeeping. You stretch in the other direction toward a kitchen that embraces you with its wrap-around bench, extended like a friend's arm around your shoulders. The cobalt blue laminate bench top contrasts with the varnished pine slats on the walls, telling stories of ghosts who proudly decorated over the decades. You feel at ease here, in these layers of life that exist in this home.

You look back to yourself still studying the fireplace. You can’t help but love her. This part of you that so desperately wants to enjoy and learn about everything. Her wide eyes that grew wider just hours ago as you and Adam swirled through the snow-covered West Coast mountainscapes, and how she would momentarily jolt you out of deep conversations to point out the importance of how pretty it is - the way the colour of that boulder contrasts the foliage of that pine. It's the part of yourself that runs their fingers along the walls and excitedly feels the bounce of the moss lawn outside. You study her harder. She’s desperate to keep this fire alive. You hope she’s gentle with herself when she fails. You sit between your universes, your planes, and turn towards her because she’s easier to face.

A hand extends from behind you and hands you a cup of tea. It brushes against your spine and you’re guided back to the glowing fire with the mountain in the background.

The presence of this mountain, over this town, through this window, in this house, with these ghosts, consumes you. You slip between parallel moments faster. You're sipping tea on morphing armchairs, couches, and stools. You look through time, through your now, the before, and the incoming.

A voice whispers - ‘To see the world properly, one must see it reversed’.

The mountain's shoulders begin to lose their new vegetation, becoming the moonland you were told about. The street below bustles and the winds carry sheets of sulphuric dust and ash that settle like snow.

Down in the garden you see a boy playing. He’s making mud pies - his body splattered with the toxic mix of dirt, ash and dust. He is your great grandfather. He looks up at you, smirks a cheeky grin and nods knowingly - aware you’re a part of what is to come. You wonder how much time he got to spend just being a kid. He goes back to mud pies. You look up to Mt Owen again. Trees begin to stand upright and ancient forests reach tall as the town shrinks. The space around you shifts and instead of warm tea between your hands it's just cold air and a campfire beckoning you. Your feet settle into moss and twigs as you look past this fire up to this mountain. The ghosts of the house disperse and new ones float through, people and animals traversing a land with forests growing denser and air clearing. You breathe in as deep as you can, eyes closed, hands still warmed by fire, and your spirit held by Lutruwita. You look up and out, and feel the presence of thousands of generations of people who can’t help but be moved by mountains and by fires.

Suddenly, a door swings open and a woman glides into the home - one hand filled with flowers destined for the empty vase on the table, and the other to her ear chatting away about magnolias. You spot each other and both freeze. Slowly and graciously in sync, your eyes meet and you smile. She expresses her surprise at your early arrival. You express your surprise at the gesture of fresh flowers. You feel everyone bringing you back to yourself as you sit down into this present, ready for what is to come.

Baylee Griffin

Baylee Griffin (they/she) is an early career artist and writer based in Illawarra/Wollongong, NSW. Their practice is marked by an enduring exploration of the physical and psychological bounds of the way we gather and inhabit the land, through questioning our implication and accountability towards each other and the environment. How might we meet the often rattling truths this questioning and seeing reveals, with care and compassion, both for ourselves and for others?

In response to this questioning Griffin creates delicate, intricate and meticulously made ceramic sculptures that reflect fragile ecologies, and often carry a discomforting verve. In their writing, they work similarly - creating intricate, tangled worlds that delicately explore or witness harsh realities.