Am I right to think that you already sent this in say one or two years ago?
Why do I have the feeling I have already read it?


From: "david.bircumshaw" <[log in to unmask]>


> I have a little skit called 'The Dementia of Professor Happenstance'. It
> isn't possible to reproduce its format accurately in e-mail but I've tried
> my best. Please note the words of 'our poet' when being asked what it's
all
> about: 'I dunno, I only work here'. His job is that of doorkeeper.
> By e-mail standards it's quite long, though short in reading realities. I
> might mention too that Basho was a pseudonym, one of many the writer
> employed, which can be translated as 'Mr Banana'. He prospered as a comic
> writer.
>
> Anyhow, the Professor, his assistants, the typing baboons and, above all,
> Nora below. With the shadowy figure of the Poet in attendance.
>
>
> David Bircumshaw
>
> Spectare's Web, A Chide's Alphabet
> & Painting Without Numbers
>
> http://www.chidesalphabet.org.uk
>
>
>
>
> THE DEMENTIA OF PROFESSOR HAPPENSTANCE
>
> ( a reconstruction )
>
> Personae:
>
> Baboon troop with typewriters (p.p. an infinite number of chimpanzees )
>
> Prof. Happenstance, Head of the Laboratory
>
> Morine, a cleaner
>
> Nutt, Boom and Case, assistants on secondment to the lab.
>
> Our Poet, a.k.a. the doorman
>
> Scene:
>
> The Coalville Cavendish Laboratory towards the end of the 20th century. A
> room of grey and white terminals and consoles, of flickering green
screens,
> wire trays stacked high with paper and gleaming metallic tables. A troop
of
> baboons, each of which is secured to a seat before a typewriter, occupy a
> deep cage at one end. Wires from the cage connect to a wall speaker and
> screen. The Professor is deep in discussion with his assistants. The
baboons
> begin to type.
>
>
> Baboons: To be or not to be, that is the Quested.
>
> Prof: Excellent. 95% duplication, 100%
> reduplication of run 107 @ 33b.
> Gentlemen, I believe we are on
> the brink of success.
>
> Nutt : Absolutely.
> Boom: Indubitably.
> Case: Undeniably.
>
> Baboons: A verse, averse, our kingdom is a hearse.
>
> Puzzlement and concern wrinkle the domed foreheads of the scientists. The
> assistants peer frantically at readouts.
>
> Nutt: Deterioration of Improbables.
> Boom: Unlikeliness
> unstable.
> Case: Abnormality critical.
>
> Assts(all) Warning! Meltdown! Warning! Meltdown! Warning!
> Prof: Enough! Peace. Originality vectors variable.
>
> (at controls)Likeliness of Hackenshaft effect 3.2 rising.
> Reverse typewriter feed, reverse type -
> Assts(all) Feed reverse jammed. Feed reverse jammed.
> Baboons: Who would not abdenture for such merchant ice?
> Who would not conventure for such parod eyes?
> This must give us paws, this puddles the Will.
> LIKEWISE:
> Thou dost affect the royal in thy speech.
> Prof: Overload! Duplication crash. Originality
> invasion. Breakdown of banality field.
> Boom, call security. Case, switch -
> Baboons: Why what but why what mine but my what why?
> Prof: No, no! Order is all. The degradation of
> the predictability of the impredictable,
> the control of the uncontrolled, doth rank
> and steep against the vantage of our state.
> The very certainty that rests embower'd
> in the pleasant suburbs of security
> becomes the beast of madness when the sure
> and fixed balm of number-reining law
> turns to a dark hell that munches roses
> ranked in figured nature on the lawn.
> That way dementia lies. That way lies.
>
> He begins to break connections, upend terminals, beat at screens. Nutt,
Boom
> and Case try to restrain him but fail. Worriedly, they confer.
>
> Nutt: Project's end:
> Boom: Technicians' meeting:
> Case:
> Events to ditch:
> Assts(all) Our names to save. Records dump and let's unhitch.
>
> They begin to erase records but leave on hearing footsteps
>
> Enter security, in the guise of 'the door', Our Poet.
> Poet: Did somebody want me?
>
> The Professor is sitting in front of the baboon cage, making simian
noises.
> Smoke rises from the terminals, befogging the room.
>
> Baboons: Ill-sits my reason with this heavie houre.
> The gross enfumed mist that ranks and steeps--
>
> Enter Morine, mop and bucket in hand, cigarette in mouth.
>
> Mor: Nora bleedin' bucket, what a pig-hole. Hoi, gormless,
> (to Poet) give us a hand with this. The old prof don't
> look too good, does he, eh? What's all this about?
>
> Poet: I dunno, I only work here, you know.
>
> They clear up the mess in the smoky room. Poet looks for a fire
> extinguisher. The Professor gibbers softly. The baboons type faster and
> faster, red lights begin to dance, an alarm sounds bleatingly and a
printer
> disburdens a mass of sheets.
>
> Poet (reads) 'The Ghost Machine or a Fit in Four Bits'
>
> Puzzled, he tucks the sheets under his arm. He and Morine gently coax the
> Professor from the room. The smoke thickens as the plot thins.
>