The Revolving Blue Door and the Drizzlebutter Chewy

[Stephen Whiteside]

The Revolving Blue Door and the Drizzlebutter Chewy

© Stephen Whiteside 02.03.11

The blue door revolved slowly as it flew through space. The bright and dark sides continued to alternate, unlike the moon. Bright sunbeams reflected off its brass knob. The rest of the door was more subdued, though. It was blue, but in a muted way. There were four recessed panels, upon each of which fell a thin shadow from its central, broader spine.
 
The door was proud of its blueness - not so much the fact that it was blue, but the quality of its blueness. It was subtle, not showy, matt not gloss. It was more than that, though. It was a washed out, mid blue, like watercolour almost, not a thick deep navy blue. A tasteful blue. At least that was how the door thought of itself.
 
Of course, there was nobody and nothing nearby to admire it, so its appearance did not matter much, but this had not always been the case, and would not necessarily remain the case in the future. Traveling through space, as it was, the door was in something of a state of transition. It had not always travelled through space. Indeed, this was the first time.
 
Its first reaction was to regard the journey as inconsequential - nothing more than a state between two worlds. It had re-thought this position, though. The journey was taking longer than it had first anticipated, and felt like it was starting to take on something of a life of its own.
 
Besides, the trip was far from dull. Sure, the distances were vast, and most of the time nothing happened. There were things to see, though. Stars, mostly. It had no idea how fast it was traveling, because the stars did not seem to be moving. This meant little, though. It understood that. Distances in space being as vast as they are, it would have to be traveling incredibly fast before it actually saw itself as moving relative to the stars. How fast? It had no idea.
 
As fast as the speed of light? Can doors even travel that fast? It had heard that only light can travel as far as the speed of light. So presumably it was traveling slower than that. Of course, there was always the possibility that it had entered a worm hole. Worm holes were supposed to allow travel faster than the speed of light. If they existed. And how did you enter a worm hole? And did you even want to? Worms and doors don't go well together, thought the door. Might be good for the worm. Not so good for the door. Not wooden ones, anyway.
 
But can you still see stars if you are in a worm hole? Do worm holes have walls? Are they transparent? These were very big questions. And did the door even want to travel fast, anyway? It all depended on where he was going. If he was going somewhere good, yes, that was good, but if he was going somewhere bad, perhaps he would be better going more slowly. What was the hurry?

The stars were pretty. Was he lonely? He thought perhaps he was a bit, though doors don't normally get lonely. Still, he did miss his jamb, and the walls. And the roof. And the floor. And it was nice being opened and closed from time to time. It was nice to feel useful. And he liked the feel of human fingers on his brass knob.
 
Other things he didn't miss, though. The occasional kick. Vibrating as loud music passed through him. Getting stuck sometimes, especially in the winter when the humidity was high. There was a wonderful freedom associated with spinning slowly through space, too. Still, freedom is one of those things that is a bit two-edged. It can be great for a while, but can also get boring. It's a funny thing, freedom. It can look great if you haven't got it. Then you get it, and it feels great. Then it starts to become a bit tedious, even frightening, and you start to dream of being pegged down again...until you are pegged down, of course. Then you start to dream of freedom all over again! Doors are no different from anything else in this regard.
 
There was a little brass elephant that used to rest against him sometimes to hold him open. He wondered what had happened to the elephant after the explosion. Perhaps he had been blown into a thousand pieces. Or melted. Or perhaps he was traveling through space, just like him.
 
After the explosion. After the planet had exploded. There is a limit to how much doors can comprehend, and what the door did not realise was that all sorts of things from the planet were now hurtling through space like he was. The trouble was, though, if it was indeed trouble, that they were all shooting away from the planet in a radial pattern, so the longer they travelled, the more they moved apart from each other. There was almost no chance that the door would ever meet anything from its planet ever again. There was not a great chance that the door would ever meet anything else either, but the door did not understand this at the time. Later he would understand the miracle that eventually befell him, but not now.
 
Of course, there was the matter of his hinges. Two had been blown off, but one had stayed. The screws had tended to go with the hinges, so he still had three screws. Why did one hinge remain? Or why did two get blown off? These were imponderable questions. It might have been related to the strength of his wood at that particular point, to how tightly the screws had been screwed in at the beginning, the direction of the explosion, or a combination of all these things - together perhaps even with other factors he was not aware of. Atmospheric conditions, perhaps. Who knows? It didn't matter. The point was, he now only had one hinge left.
 
Would this be a problem, he wondered, on his next planet? Would he have to compete with a door that still had all its hinges? Would it really matter? Perhaps even one hinge would turn out to be better than most. Perhaps this planet would have evolved  beyond the use of doors, and he'd be chopped up for firewood. Or put in a museum. Or placed across bricks to fashion a crude table in a caveman's cave.
 
Perhaps he wouldn't ever land on another planet. Or perhaps he would orbit another planet for a few thousand years, only to eventually spiral down into the planet, burning up in its atmosphere, till only the knob and hinges (and screws) remained. Perhaps even they, too, would melt into nothing. Or maybe he would fly straight into a star and vanish in an instant. These were depressing prospects, really. Then again he might collide with an asteroid belt, and be filled with holes, eventually being shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
 
Sometimes, though, the door forced itself to think positive thoughts. Maybe an astronaut would appear beside him one day with two bright hinges and six shiny brass screws, and replace his lost hinges. Perhaps the astronaut would be missing a door on his space craft, and the door would be a perfect replacement. That didn't seem right, though. Space ships didn't have wooden doors. But maybe in the future they would, and this astronaut might come from a more advanced civilisation. Maybe space ships had wooden doors in the past, and this astronaut might come from a less advanced civilisation. But less advanced civilisations didn't have space ships, did they. But maybe they did. Maybe they evolved differently. Instead of wooden ships sailing on the sea, they had wooden ships sailing through space. 
 
But this door was a house door, not a ship's door. He wouldn't even fit on a sailing ship, let alone a space ship. You never knew though, did you. Other civilisations might develop space ships that were perfect for a door like him. One man's space-ship door is another man's house door. Or woman’s. You had to stay positive. Anything is possible, especially when you're racing through outer space.
 
He was grateful for one thing. He didn't need to breathe, and he didn't need to eat and drink. Also, he didn't feel the cold or the heat, so he was pretty safe for the time being. His main problem was his sense of futility. He was attached to nothing, and everything in his world could be seen as either open or closed depending on how you looked at it, but not depending in any way on him.
 
Sometimes he tried to think that when he was facing the nearest star he was open and when he was facing the other way he was closed. But who was he kidding, really? I mean, it made not the faintest difference to anything or anybody, and he knew it. He was useless. He was a door without purpose. But he was a door with a potential purpose, and he held onto that.
 
Besides, there were good things about having no purpose. With purpose came responsibility, with responsibility came the possibility of failure. Success too, for sure, but failure also. It was nice living without the possibility of failure. For a while, anyway. Then it just became boring. A bit like freedom, really.
 
Time was a funny thing in space. It almost felt as though time had stopped. He knew this could not be true. But with nothing happening, and nothing to be done, it was as though time had stopped. I mean, if time did stop, it would not feel any different to this so, in a sense, time had stopped. At least for the door, it had.
 
He worried about his blueness, though. He knew he had been painted with a rather old fashioned paint that was not supposed to be exposed to harsh sunlight. There was no guarantee he would not fade. Now he was facing very harsh sunlight, and constantly. Without a mirror, though, he did not know how he was faring. Even with a mirror, he wondered how he would look. Conditions were very different out here in space, and light played strange tricks.
 
What was that? Something had struck him. Quite hard, but not hard enough to create a hole. That was odd. He thought that anything that struck him must surely break him, because he was traveling so fast (probably) and, being wooden, was not all that strong. But he couldn't feel a hole anywhere. What was more, he was pretty sure the thing that struck him was still attached. How strange.
 
The door noticed that he was now spinning in a slightly different way. Well, that was to be expected, given that he had been hit. It wasn't a huge difference, though, so he must have been hit by something small. He tried making contact with this strange new object, but no reply was forthcoming. It was a puzzle. There was nothing more the door could do. He had settled into this new slightly different revolving pattern, and now everything was very still again.
 
Time passed. Or did it? How was the door to tell? Perhaps it just continued to stand still. But if it stood still, could you measure how long it stood still for? And if you could, then it wasn't really standing still, was it?
 
More time passed, or did not pass. At last he heard a little voice.
 
Where am I?
 
You're here.
 
Where's here?
 
Here on me. Attached to me.
 
And what are you?

I'm a blue door.
 
And where are you?

I'm here. And what are you?

I'm a piece of chewing gum. A chewed up piece of chewing gum. So chewed up I've lost all my flavour. I used to be a lovely piece of purple drizzlebutter chewing gum but now I'm just a faded lilac colour. Almost white, really. Or more like a pale grey. I used to be stuck to a ceiling, but when my planet exploded I was thrown into outer space. I don't know what has happened since then. Nothing much at all, really. I don't know when my planet exploded. It's hard to measure time. I don't even know if time is passing at all. Sometimes I think maybe time is standing still. But now something has happened. I've crashed into you. So time can't be standing still, can it. Or maybe it stopped for a while, but started again. But why would it do that?
 
Good questions. Good questions. I've been wondering the same thing. So, did you crash into me, or did I crash into you?
 
Well, you're bigger than me, so it seems polite to suggest that I crashed into you, rather than the other way around.
 
Yes, fair enough, but you see my point, don't you?

Yes, I do. It's interesting.
 
By the way, I tried to talk to you when you first landed, but you didn't reply.
 
Sorry about that. I think I must have been knocked out. I was feeling pretty groggy there for a while. I hit you pretty hard, and had no warning at all. One moment, nothing, then wham! My shape has changed, too. I'm much flatter now. I hope I didn't hurt you.
 
No, no. I'm fine. Just glad you didn't go straight through me. Luckily you hit me roughly in the middle. If you'd struck one of my panels, I might not have been so lucky. You seem pretty perky now, though. You must be feeling a lot better.
 
Yes, I am. Thanks. Feeling much better.
 
I'm spinning a bit differently now. You probably slowed me down a bit, too. And changed my direction slightly.
 
More than likely. Does that matter?

Not in the least. When you're completely lost, it makes no difference at all what direction you travel in.
 
Yes, I can see that.
 
You say your planet exploded?

Yes.
 
Well, so did mine.
 
How extraordinary!
 
Perhaps we're both from the same planet. Strange, though. I've never heard of drizzlebutter flavoured chewing gum.
 
No, I'm pretty sure we're not from the same planet. That's why you've never heard of me. I've never seen a blue door, either.
 
Never seen a blue door? How odd. So what makes you so sure we're not from the same planet?
 
If we came from the same planet, we'd be moving away from each other, like spokes of a wheel. But we've collided. So we must be from different planets.
 
How very clever of you. How did you work that out?

I'm not sure. I was pretty well chewed, though. I think maybe some human intelligence rubbed off onto me.
 
But I had fingers on my knob many times a day for many years. Some intelligence must have rubbed off onto me, too.
 
Yes, I'm sure it did. Maybe saliva passes it on more efficiently, though. Fingers are such dry things. And the outer layer of skin is dead. I suppose saliva is dead, too, but maybe it carries more living cells. I don't know. Anyway, who says I am any smarter than you? I just knew one thing you didn't, that's all.
 
True enough. No wonder I've never heard of drizzlebutter flavoured chewing gum. It sounds nice. Drizzlebutter. But why are you purple?

That's an odd question. All butter is purple. It is on our planet, anyway.
 
I see. Well, on our planet milk is white. Cows' milk, anyway. Well, I think all milk, though coconut milk is kind of watery.
 
What are cows?

They make the milk that humans drink. Where does your milk come from?

Wokkabubbas. Wokkabubbas make most of the milk on our planet. They are purple, and have eight legs.
 
I see. But you do have humans?
 
Yes, of course.
 
Interesting. So there are humans on more than one planet, and both of these planets have exploded. I wonder how many planets humans live on, and how many of these have exploded.
 
I think they were just blown up too big.
 
What do you mean?

Like balloons, you know. Blow them up too big, and they'll explode.
 
But planets aren't like balloons!
 
Aren't they? How do you know?

I don't suppose I do, really. But who would have blown them up?
 
Yes, that's the interesting question. I can't answer that. Another human, maybe?
 
I don't think humans are big enough to blow up their own planets.
 
No, I don't mean directly. Indirectly. Maybe there's a war on, and they've developed these weapons - giant robots, maybe - that can put their lips around the mouthpiece of a planet and blow it up.
 
But I didn't know planets had mouthpieces.
 
Well, you wouldn't necessarily know, would you. I mean, if they did, the humans would try to hide them pretty well for just this reason. The last thing you want is for your enemy to discover the location of your planet's mouthpiece!
 
Yes, good point.
 
So you think the humans are blowing up each other's planets with giant robots?

Well, I don't know for sure, but it's possible.
 
Yes, I suppose it is. So what now?

What do you mean?

Well, what do we do next?
 
I don't know. I don't suppose we do anything next. We just keep on doing what we have been doing, which is nothing.
 
Yes, I suppose. Still, it's nicer doing nothing with somebody else than doing nothing by yourself.
 
Yes, I agree.
 
But sooner or later, you know, unless we actually do something, we won't really be different from each other. We'll just be a single object, a piece of chewing gum on a door, flying through space. Because what we do defines who we are. And if we don't do anything, then it really can't be said that we are anything.
 
That's so true. See, you're not so dumb after all! Those human fingers have done a good job on you!
 
Thank you. I wonder if our thoughts can define us. Even if we don't do anything, we can have different thoughts, and therefore we are different from each other. And not alone.
 
Yes, that's a good thought. But if we don't do anything for a long time, perhaps eventually our thoughts will merge, too, so that we become a single entity.
 
But surely our souls are different. I have the soul of a blue door, and you have the soul of a piece of purple drizzlebutter chewing gum.
 
Yes, but is that enough?
 
I don't know. I like to think so, but I don't know.
 
Why does it matter? Is it all just about loneliness? Is there any other reason? If we melded into one being, what difference would it really make?

Yes, you make a good point. Perhaps it is just my vanity. I just don't like the idea of losing my identity. I feel it's the one thing I do have left. We have both lost so much, you know.
 
Yes, that's true. I think it means more to you than to me, though. I had already lost my purpose well before the explosion. I had lost my flavour, and most of my colour, and had been thrown up onto the ceiling to dry out and be forgotten. People were opening and closing you right up until the very moment of the explosion. So the transition to uselessness has been much more sudden for you.
 
Yes, that's interesting. So how did you cope with the sense of futility?
 
Well, I was born into it. That helps, I think. I was trained to expect it from an early age. So I had plenty of time to prepare. I always knew I'd be spat out one day.
 
Gee, that's really tough. I mean, doors aren't very important, but at least you are always a door. I am finding it difficult adjusting to irrelevance, you are right.
 
Well, you've got plenty of time to get used to it. And even if you never do, there's nothing you can really do about it. You're stuck with it. To the extent that anything will happen at all, it will only happen in your mind.
 
This nothingness, it's not very comfortable, is it? I mean, I don't feel bad, but I don't feel good. I don't really feel at all. Maybe that's the problem. Sometimes I think I'd prefer to feel bad than to have this eternal numbness that I feel now.
 
Yes, I know what you mean. We have each other now, though, and that helps. It helps me, anyway.
 
Yes, it helps me too. I'm glad you crashed into me. But how long before we adjust to that, and both just start to feel alone again, as though we have nobody because we are the same thing?

Yes, that's an interesting question. I can't answer that, of course.
 
So it appears we are destined to travel together forever through nothingness, with nothing ever happening.
 
Yes, I guess so. Hey, what was that?



 

[Neville Briggs]

hmmmm..a sort of Blue Door's guide to the Galaxy.

[Maureen K Clifford]

I bet Heather wants a purple Wokkabubba and I know I would like one.

I wonder if the chewing gum had been stuck on the bedpost would it still have lost its flavour??? It was pretty smart chewing gum too - must have been a Wrigleys believe it or not variety

And it is a classy door - totally agree - very tasteful - sounds just like my front door...that is classy too but of course that is only IMO.

Thoroughly enjoyed this fantastic, phantasmagorical fantasy Stephen. Thank you

Cheers
Maureen