February

You'll have to forgive the paltry number of posts since the start of the new year. In truth there is very little to write about besides a litany of illnesses and ailments. Earlier this month we were supposed to go to Forest Kozan, but the night before Cian vomited quite spectacularly all over his room. So the following morning, rather than marveling at the snow shrouded beauty of the mid-winter forest, we instead spent it wiping flecks of undigested food off the bed, floor, walls, table, books, slippers, and school bag, and probably missed a few other spots as well (but which will no doubt spawn a colony of mold come summer). Subsequent weekends were blighted by blizzards and bad weather, so tramps through the snow had to be reluctantly cancelled.
To my mind February is a month that hangs especially heavy here in Hokkaido. Despite my time here (15 years!), I have never really embraced winter sports; snowshoeing is the extent of my seasonal activity, otherwise I go for a slow, slippery jog. This sense of constant constraint produces an intemperate longing for the future; I am impatient for Spring to come and this expectation of warmer times suppresses any engagement with the present. The result though is that "while we are postponing, life speeds by".
This quote is taken from a book I am currently reading, if you'll excuse the pretension, written two thousand years ago, the Epistles of Seneca (mere letters were beneath the ancients).
As an aside, the university library has a surprisingly well stocked, albeit somewhat dated, philosophy collection. It is particularly strong on classical philosophy and, for some reason, the complete and unabridged works of Immanuel Kant - in the original German. The book by Seneca was added to the library's collection in 1976, and as far as I can discover, I am the first person to have borrowed the book. I am kind of hoping they will let me keep it.
Anyway, Seneca, as most of you probably already know, was corner back on the great Cork hurling team of 17 A.D., winning 5 All Ireland medals and a couple of All-Stars, his man-marking of Cuchulainn and keeping him scoreless from play in the drawn final of 20 A.D. by now legendary.
That was only the half of it as it turns out, for he was also a philosopher in the Stoic tradition, and tutor to the young Roman Emperor, Nero (he of the famous fiddle playing). The book is a collection of letters, sorry, epistles he sent to his friend Lucilus. These letters range far and wide on a multitude of topics, from 'the good which abides', to 'brawn and brain', to 'meeting death cheerfully'. 
I doubt if Seneca ever lived in Hokkaido, but he seemed to capture the mood of February in this part of the world when he wrote: "What man can you show me who places only value in his time, who reckons the worth of each day, who understands that he is dying daily".
Yes, I know, time to hide the kitchen knives from Brian and sit me down in front of the complete series of Fr. Ted (thank God for youtube), but Seneca does have a point. He would, however, be hard pressed to make it here in Muroran on a dull, snow swept Sunday afternoon with the melancholy of Monday creeping closer. He lived in Rome and could always go the Colosseum to watch lions tear men apart whenever he felt particularly despondent. Unfortunately, Muroran offers no such distractions, despite my lobbying the Mayor.
Ahh February. I'll be glad to be done with you.