Humeur noire

The Ingenious Mr. Fairchild blooms

in the June morning light

Humeur noire, or one bad mood.


HUMEUR, subst. fém.

II. − Disposition, particularité constante ou momentanée du caractère, du tempérament d'une personne.

A. − Vieilli. Tendance habituelle du caractère d'une personne liée à l'équilibre, à la prédominance des humeurs du corps. Humeur flegmatique, bilieuse. De sorte que ce qui était l'effet de son humeur atrabilaire semblait celui du mépris des personnes à l'égard de qui elle s'exerçait (Proust, Temps retr., 1922, p. 764).

B. − Tendance dominante du tempérament, du caractère d'une personne. Arnoux se lamentait devant lui sur l'humeur de sa femme, son entêtement, ses préventions injustes. Elle n'était pas comme cela autrefois (Flaub., Éduc. sent., t. 1, 1869, p. 219). Ma mère est une femme admirable, je vous l'ai dit, mais elle est d'humeur simple, c'est une âme sans détour (Duhamel, Confess. min., 1920, p. 26). Il est donc vrai de dire que le caractère enferme le tempérament et l'humeur; mais ce n'est pas tout dire. Un homme très vigoureux, très puissant, a souvent plus d'humeur que de caractère. Le caractère c'est l'humeur contrainte (Alain, Propos, 1931, p. 1031) :

3. Car des hérésies en matière de foi je n'ai ni le goût ni l'autorité de les dénoncer ou simplement de m'en faire le censeur et toutes espèces de délations ou de censures ne conviennent ni à ma nature, ni à mon humeur, ni à mon tempérament, ni à mon caractère.
Péguy, Argent, 1913, p. 1289.

− Humeur + adj. (spécifiant la qualité de cette humeur). Je suis au fond Girondin et républicain par instinct; j'ai l'humeur populaire, et à chaque émotion publique le vieux levain se remue en moi (Sainte-Beuve, Cahiers, 1869, p. 84). C'est donc à tort que, pour expliquer la décadence des proverbes, on a invoqué notre goût réaliste et notre humeur scientifique (Durkheim, Divis. trav., 1893, p. 145). Christophe s'apercevait de la fascination qu'il exerçait ainsi sur son ami; et il outrait son humeur agressive; il sapait, comme un vieux révolutionnaire, les conventions sociales et les lois de l'État (Rolland, J.-Chr., Matin, 1904, p. 160) :

4. C'est avec elle seulement que j'aime à parler. Mais toujours je me heurte à son humeur récriminante. Elle n'a parlé que pour se plaindre. Tout la ramène à ses stupides griefs... Que lui faut-il donc pour être heureuse?...
Chardonne, Épithal., 1921, p. 213.

SYNT. Humeur accommodante, conciliante, débonnaire, enjouée, sociable; humeur austère, dévote, inquiète, méditative; humeur combative, frondeuse, guerrière; humeur âpre, endurante, fière, indomptable, fanatique, farouche, indépendante, indocile; humeur noire, sombre, rogue; humeur de chien, de dogue; humeur changeante, fantasque, vive, vagabonde, voyageuse; humeur caustique, goguenarde, moqueuse, médisante, querelleuse; humeur hystérique, sauvage, violente; humeur babillarde, hautaine, jalouse, paresseuse, pessimiste.

Prononc. et Orth. : [ymœ:ʀ]. Att. ds Ac. dep. 1694. Étymol. et Hist. 1. 1119 « eau (élément nécessaire à la vie, symbolisant ici l'amour) » (Ph. de Thaon, Comput, 1033 : Pluius est nostre lei, Ço est amur e fei; Por l'humur entendum L'amur qu'aveir devun Par valur de la fei), attest. isolée; 2. ca 1175 « composant liquide du corps humain » gén. au plur. (B. de Ste-Maure, Ducs Normandie, éd. C. Fahlin, 28633); spéc. ca 1265 méd. « composants au nombre de quatre dont le dosage détermine le tempérament » (Brunet Latin, Trésor, éd. F. J. Carmody, I, 99, 9 : car en aus a .IIII. humors, colera ki est chaude et seche, fleuma, ki est froide et moiste, melancolie ki est froide et seche, sanc ki est chaus et moistes); 3. a) 1555 au plur. « sentiments, attitudes, état d'esprit » (Ronsard, Hymnes, éd. P. Laumonier, Œuvres Complètes, VIII, 158, 184); 1556 au sing. humeur Pindarique (Id., Nouvelle Cout. des Amours, ibid., VII, 324, 171); b) 1559 « tempérament, caractère » (Id., Second Livre des Meslanges, ibid., X, 112, 51). Empr. au lat. humor, -oris « eau, humidité, fluide, composant liquide ». Fréq. abs. littér. : 4 674. Fréq. rel. littér. : xix^e s. : a) 7 250, b) 6 398; xx^e s. : a) 4 961, b) 7 279. Bbg. Henry 1960, p. 50, 56. - Sckomm. 1933, pp. 16-22.

[ymœ:ʀ]

I don't think that will help much. Try this, it's close enough: Humeur [Euwmehr], with the unaspirated "h" of "haricot" or "haleine".

If the mood isn't pretty, at least the pictures can be, can't they?
....

Lurching to a halt, or diesel and gasoline just don't mix

20 liters, diesel and gas mix

"Sam, put the car in the right gear. Please."

"Mom! It is," he said, looking frantically at the shift stick.

"It can't be." We nearly stalled, the old Fiat Uno jerking forward from the green light. We continued to the traffic circle and turned right to head towards home. He shifted from second to third, or -- "Sam, shift. What's going on?" He was getting upset now.

"I don't know --" he said, looking again at the shift stick, loose on the Fiat, but. I was perfectly baffled. He usually does just fine, but this was a mess. The car bucked at the second speed bump by the school.

"Stop the car. Here."

"I am." The gears of my brain were working overtime, trying to figure out what was going on with him, or --

"Sam, what did you put in the car?" We had just filled the tank up. Sam always does it himself when he is driving.

"Gas." The universal term for the liquid that makes a car run.

"Gas or diesel fuel?" Did I really need to ask? The car had just lurched to a halt.

"95." I put my head in my hands and breathed. The Fiat is a diesel, our only diesel. I sat very, very quietly. Right before I left with him, we had had the BMW argument again; Audouin doesn't want him to drive the 328i. I do.

His reasons? We'll kill Sam if he has an accident driving because we could never replace this car for anywhere near the price we paid. We got really lucky. My reasons? Put a good car in the hands of someone learning to drive while you are sitting next to them, teaching, and they will learn to drive responsibly, if they are not a hopelessly spoiled brat.

His reasons? It's a propulsion, and if you don't have a lot of experience driving them, you are more likely to lose control. My reasons? If you don't learn to drive a propulsion, you won't learn how to master it, and you are more likely to lose control when you do drive one.

His reasons? The Fiat is just fine. My reasons? A good car teaches good feeling at the wheel and better reactions, leading to mastery. His reasons? The Fiat is less powerful, ergo safer. My reasons? The BMW is more powerful, you learn what the power is really for: not to go fast, but to maneuver for increased safety.

Why else would we have bought such a car?

And, so, here we were, sitting side by side in perfect silence, I thinking about how to tell Audouin that Sam had just filled the tank, gas lines and carburetor with gasoline; Sam in perfect silence of the body and mouth. He might have been thinking as loudly as I was, but he kept it to himself.

Audouin arrived with several containers for the diesel and gas mix and a length of garden hose to siphon it. He looked fit to kill. Well, stern, anyway.

"Ben, j'espère qu'elle n'est pas foutue," he said, unloading the gas cans from the BMW.

"Sam, now," I urged. It was time to voice the apology I had encouraged. Apologies are not Sam's strong suit.

"I am," he hissed at me. "Audouin, je suis désolé." Incomplete, but better than nothing. It was at least spoken in an audible voice and with sincerity.

"Ca va, Sam. On pourrait tous faire ça, mais c'est la faute de ta mère." Hunh? "Elle aurait du surveiller." No problem, Sam, we can all make the same mistake. It's your mother's fault, really. She should have been paying attention. I took a deep cleansing breath and chose not to react. Besides, it wasn't the time to argue with him; he was kneeling down, sucking on the end of the hose, trying to get the vacuum effect going. He spat. "Blech. J'ai la bouche et le nez pleins d'essence. Blech." He spat again. I remained quiet and called our friends.

We were supposed to be on our way to les Andelys for dinner soon, and Thierry has mechanical friends. Not that Audouin isn't mechanical. He is. He was just in an humeur noire. Thierry also does endurance motor cycle trips. He called his friend and called me back.

"Elle est de quelle année?"

"1994."

"C'est bien. Les modèles plus récents sont beaucoup plus sousceptible dans ce cas. Voilà ce qu'il faut faire." He explained we needed to empty the tank, undo the gas line, clean the fuel filter and start the car to drain the fuel line, then add diesel fuel.

"Ca n'a pas l'aire trop méchant." My battery died.

"Non, mais il faut avoir les outils," muttered Audouin. "La dernière fois j'ai essayé de travailler sur cette voiture, je n'avais pas ce qu'il fallait." I could hear the injury to the Italian engineers intended. Hey, it's cheap and still running after 15 years and more than 200,000 km.

"Alors, tu pousse avec la BM, et on la laisse chez le garagiste."

"J'espère qu'elle ne va pas nous ruiner."

Not quite.

We picked the Fiat up this morning. 35 euros, off the books, including 10 liters of diesel fuel to get us going. The trim for the BMW grill plate he broke pushing will cost us more than Sam's -- oh, excuse me, my mistake.

Unless the super glue and wire work.

Sh. He doesn't know he did it. I don't think.
....

What are the odds?

Pelophylax kl. esculentus and I observe one another

from a short distance

I counted 60 in fewer seconds this morning. They were all gathered together in 3 or 4 groups, making it easy to count them. I read that typically 5 tadpoles will develop for 2,000 eggs laid and fertilized.

60 divided by 5 equals 12. 12 times 2,000 equals 24,000 eggs. A female will lay from 3,000 to 10,000 eggs at a time. So, we are looking at anywhere from 2 to 8 couplings in the basin.

Also possible is that the relatively low numbers of natural predators in a fish-pond-in-a-fountain right outside our front door equals a greater survival rate for the eggs to hatch.

Understand also that I only bothered to count 3 or 4 groups in the basin this morning. That doesn't count everyone else in the other 3/4 to 4/5 of the area.

They are also definitely newly hatched since they measure no more than 6 to 8 mm from snout to the tip of the tail, and they have no rear appendages apparent yet. Those come along before the front legs.

These frogs are going to have to find themselves homes.

And, ah, oui, they are the edible sort.
....

What have I been telling you about Iran? Ayatollah you so!

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Jason Jones: Behind the Veil - Ayatollah You So
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Jason Jones in Iran

See? Iranians are definitely cool. And I'll bet the guy in the US who got 3 right (and looked like he thought Jason Jones is a whack job) is Iranian-American.

"I-R-A-N --"

"India?"

"Does Iran mean nothing to you? The country of Iran?"

May they at least get a fairer election result than Americans in 2000.

"The Daily Show with Jon Stewart? [faces camera] Hi, Jon!" They are intelligent enough to deserve it. Sign that man, and his girlfriend, up!

Inshallah.
....

Mud guardian babies

A newly hatched tadpole

You can't see it? Click on the photo to see an enlarged version. It's right smack in the middle of the photo, at four o'clock from the lily pad farthest to the right, between it and the dark gray mark on the corner of the rock just in front of the base of the bird bath.

See it?

It's been such a strange and emotional day at the fish-pond-in-a-fountain. It started ordinarily enough. I went out to feed the fish when Audouin left, and I spied the Shubunkin -- one of the two smaller ones I got last, at Truffaut -- I suspect of having fin rot. It was hiding out under some vegetation along the edge of the basin. I went and got the blue net I bought in Portsall, I think it was, back in April to catch the frogs when we repaired the basin and the plastic bag from yesterday's failed attempt. It was an easy catch.

Too easy.

The little fish squirmed in my hand as I slipped him into the bag, trying to get a better look at his scales. He looked like a fish leper, bits of whitish flesh trailing off him here and there with more bits of his fins filling the water in the plastic bag. I secured the bag to the edge of the basin, using a potted geranium, and went to wash out a clear plastic tub. He'd have to wait in the car while I saw my PT. Better make him comfortable.

I felt only a little bit silly as I walked into the store, noting along the way that the electronic doors were indeed working better now that it isn't raining. I sat the fish in the plastic tub on the customer service counter, while the young woman helped the manager and a customer, who kept smiling beneficently at me. I felt suddenly very conscious of my sweat-stained work-out clothes and wild hair. I tried my best to look extremely put-together, despite myself. In France, you shower and dress before you leave the gym. When will I ever be able to get myself to do that? Their business completed, the young woman turned to me and my fish.

"Bonjour, Madame." Mademoiselle, but it's a reflex. "Mon poisson à l'aire d'avoir une infection bacterielle. Pourrais-je parler avec quelqu'un en rayon de poisson de basin?"

"Bien sur, je vous l'appelle tout de suite." I looked about the store and chatted with my ailing fish, trying to look put-together and nonchalant. Another young woman approached. We exchanged politenessess.

"Excusez-moi d'arriver dans cet état, mais j'étais un peu pressée; mon poisson ne va pas très fort." She leaned down and looked closely at it. I noted the absence of a stethoscope around her neck, but she looked like she knew what she was doing. She pursed her lips ever so slightly and nodded.

"Il a des boutons blancs. C'est la pourriture des nageoirs." Fin rot. I nodded.

"Ce que je pensais. Je peux le traiter?"

"Bien sur." He was going to survive.

"Mais, ça vient d'ou? Quand je l'ai acheté, il n'avait pas l'aire très fringuant, pas que je mets le magasin en cause!" In France, it always helps to not accuse, or even suggest fault on the part of the store or anyone, for that matter.

"Il y a souvent un poisson dans un lot qui soubis les attaques des autres, qui est un peu à l'écart, et les autres l'agressent. Ca le stresse, il y peut avoir ce genre de réponse." My poor fish. What was I to do in the face of his likely weakness and retiring nature?

"Vous avez des poissons plus grands?"

"Non, pas vraiment. La plupart sont de sa taille. Il y a deux shubunkin qui sont plus grands, mais pas plus que ça." I showed her with my fingers the size of the largest shubunkin and goldfish. She nodded again and took me to find the right antibacterial product, confirmed that it would be ideal to treat this one apart, if I could -- I could --, and sent me on my way, leaving me to wonder if he is going to find courage and become more sociable, or get this all over again.

"Dis au revoir à la dame," I said to my fish in his plastic tub.

"Au revoir," said the fish, through me. The young woman behind the counter laughed.

I am such a comic.

Arriving home, my arms loaded with the fish tub, my gym bag, a bottle of water, the keys and a baguette, I see, clear as can be, a largish frog lying on the grass. Dead. No mistaking it. He was definitely not alive. My heart sunk and my stomach turned over, watching the fly on his hind quarters. I went and dumped my stuff, placing the fish in the tub on the steps, and got the smaller fish net to carry him to the cuttings bin.

What had happened? He didn't look injured. He looked like he had merely stopped in his tracks, about a meter from the basin, on the house side. His eyes were sunken and black. Poor frog. His belly looked so white in the harsh June noon sun.

"Mom? I have to go soon." No time to mourn the frog, my sun had come out onto the balcony to inform me that he was in a great hurry to get to his SVT bac. Sciences de la vie et de la terre. I was having an earth science day myself.

"I was just about to make you lunch."

"No. I've got to run. I'll stop at the boulangerie. Oh, and I am going to Camille's after; she is having a barbecue to celebrate. They've all finished the bac." They being his classmates from last year, whose parents did not feel the need to ask them to redo their year. He was wearing Japan Rags shorts, a pair of very worn and formerly white Kawasakis and a red Abercrombie sweatshirt. The facial hair forming a rather hip looking beard stood out all that much more.

"Are you wearing that for your bac?"

"Mom, there are two teachers, one from my school and one from another school, watching us. It's not like the oral; they're not judging me."

"Oh." I knew that. "Good luck. I'll be thinking of you. Have fun at Camille's."

"I'll have my cell phone on." Thanks, Sam.

I returned to filling the green garbage can with 20 liter watering cans full until I got to close to 100 liters, added the required amount of antibacterial stuff, stirred and suspended the fish with fin rot in his plastic bag from the edge to let him acclimate before going off to see if any others look like they could use a time-out in the fin rot bath, when I noticed that one of the aquatic plants that is usually halfway across the basin over there was now here, practically on top of the rocks in the second tier bird bath Audouin had knocked off and placed in the basin years ago. What was it doing there? I climbed onto the ledge of the basin, steadied myself and leaned out over the water, grabbing the frond closest to me and pulling it.

There was movement. Little bodies darted in all directions in a sudden panic. I looked closer, nearly falling in with them and the fish.

Tadpoles!

But how? Why? Who?

I mean who moved the plant over there how and why? I know how frogs make babies. Sort of.

These are most likely Pelophylax kl. esculentus, although they look a lot like Pelophylax bergeri. Pelophylax (Pelo meaning "mud" and phylax meaning "guardian", in Greek) being a subspecies of Rana, or the frog family, which is aquatic.

The reasons ours can't be P. bergeri is that 1) in France, they are only found in Corsica, being Italian in origin, like Napoleon, while P. esculentus is found all over the top half of France; and, 2) they are smaller than the size P. esculentus can obtain, which corresponds to ours.

The call is also unmistakably that of P. esculentus. You can listen at the bottom of each of the links above.

Then it occurred too me. I had been wondering what the gelatin-like stuff was surrounding the tips of the fronds of this particular plant. It looked like algae, and I had nearly pulled it off. It was, nearly undoubtedly, frog eggs.

What is left to understand is who pulled it over to the rocks and lily pads in the shallower water? Would the frogs do that themselves, to protect the hatched tadpoles?

And, will wonders truly never cease?


....

Calling all Jane Austen lovers

From a softer world

Or lovers of Jane Austen, if you are still with us. If you are, you are pretty old. If you are, you don't have much company. Miss Austen had better things to do than make love.

Stop that now. You know how she meant it in 1814.

Please feel free to comment with your interpretations or vamp on the above.

I shall try to begin. Once it sinks in.
....

Organic yes, but recycled?

Oranges "bio" from Valencia

This is just so wrong. I bought these oranges because they are organically produced ("Bio" in these here parts), along with as many other organic products as I could find in the supermarket today (as always), but when I got home and unpacked them to add to the other fruits in the bowl and went to toss the black plastic tray, molded to hold 4 pieces of fruit and protect them from damage, I stopped to make sure it was recyclable.

I looked everywhere for the little triangle with the number inside.

I looked in vain.

There was no symbol to show that the molded plastic tray can be recycled. Therefore, it cannot be assumed that it may be. I double-checked the plastic wrapping. It contained the symbol that it (at least) was made from recycled materials, but there was still no triangle and number.

So, the oranges have been grown according to the strict EU standards for organic production, but the molded plastic tray in which they are shipped cannot be recycled. That makes no sense whatsoever.

I could purchase loose oranges that were not grown to protect the earth, or I could buy oranges grown to protect the planet, but toss the molded plastic tray in the trash.

Go figure.

A qui puis-je m'adresser, por favor?
....