Monday, December 21, 2015

“Just curing despondency, mam”


Our little Christmas tree sits in an empty room. It's tiny lights shine peacefully for no one. Our Vicky sits in a hospital room. Her uncomprehending propensity wishes to be with her Christmas tree, to gaze at it's peaceful tiny lights, to be at home where the familiar offers an anchor for the mind.

So us being somewhat impulsive, we pack up that little Christmas tree in a wimpy green garbage bag and head off across the street, that avenue which divides the scourge of Winterpeg from the upper class elites who perambulate the halls of the elixirs of the gods. Down through the maze of snaking tunnels who entangle a labyrinth of vents and pipes and cables which amazingly find their way to a destination where their usefulness is appreciated we saunter, ever wary of those security guys in their speedy little go carts who roam these subterranes, ever on the watch for infidels carrying wimpy green garbage bags.

We artfully circumvent capture to reach the fountainhead of elevator clamour and are whisked up to the fourth floor of one of the towers of respite where our Vicky desponds. Luckily the nursing station is deserted as we sneak down the long hall to the end room. Safely in the room our Vicky sees us and grins from ear to ear. She would think something was terribly wrong if we weren't up to some sort of misadventure, so it is no surprise as we unveil her little Christmas tree, setting it nobly on her window ledge and of course, we have to plug it in.

Now let us consider a generalized impulse control model for controlling a process governed by a stochastic state of affairs. The controller can only choose a parameter of the probability distribution of the consequence of his control action which is therefor random. There may be undesired results relating to the input scenarios of quasi-variational inequalities. These results will be a viscosity solution of the quasi-variational inequalities which could lead to unforeseen developments.

So, we plugged in that little Christmas tree and for a moment it shone so peacefully lighting up our Vicky's smiling face. The room grew peaceful as the angels of heaven all smiled their love down from above. But there began a wee murmur from the bed beside us. It grew, horribly. Panic and fear gripped the environs. It is said the screams were heard through the concrete floors far up above. Ever heard of christougenniatiko dentrophobia, that ghastly fear of misshapen Christmas tree branches casting long twisted shadows and clutching at you with prickly needle-like fingers: pine pitch, bone-white dried fir, and spruce tar with opoponax and blackened tobacco, who knew?

Well. Some quasi form of virtual reality must not be adhered to when life takes such a turn. We must grasp that impulse control model by the horns and create a rock solid scenario of face saving developments a little less viscid. To be loaded on board along with our peaceful little Christmas tree on a speedy little go cart and hauled off to the remotest corner of the subterranes to be thrown nonchalantly into the dungeons sealed from media and artful lawyers was not our cup of tea. Yes, we opened that window wide and dropped that peaceful little Christmas tree four stories to it's demise before you could blink your eye. When the matrons arrived we were calmly seated beside our Vicky comforting her anxious outpourings with a hug. Impetuousness jilted we went discerningly back to curing despondency one little smile at a time.
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