Day 11, #WriteOut '25: Walking with Robert. Also Navigating Age in a Right Shoulder and Now Ready For Retirement (Whaaaaaa! Ten More Years)

I think it is the rotator's cuff. Never had an issue in my baseball/football/volleyball years of throwing/hitting things around, but now I'm not enjoying the deep-rooted pain in muscle locations I can't get to with massages, rubbing against objects, and heating pads. I don't want to know what is really going on. 

Yesterday was a long day (with hints of them becoming longer with new assignments of teaching and no permission granting such classes over the holiday break). I learned this from...well...when students said, "I'm so glad you're teaching the winter session.

I am? I did know the instructor of record pulled away and I expressed my shock about this, but I didn't know it was assigned to me. Um...I'm counting the minutes of a 24-hour clock before I figure out how to deal with this. Packaging my frustration. 

I did like Rob Walker's WriteOut '25 prompt to put senses in relation to one another and to play with what is supposed to mean what. I went with that for today's post, but know I need today to get a grip on surviving another round of the insane. 

I also wonder with Ben Gay works. This shoulder pain really does hurt. 

Joining Rob Walker in a Scramble of Senses

Day 11 - Write Out ’25

b.r. crandall

Always a good day not to be

targeted by seagulls, all splotched

in runny euphoria with cracked eggs

upon a middle-aged shoulder.

There’s a ferry pulling cars

from one side of business to 

another, lapping waves for

Mercedes, Audies, and BMWs

attired with the convenience

of musical distractions.

These waters lap tasting light…

the salt lick without deer saliva

nor the glazed, apple donuts, 

but it’s hard not to taste one’s 

lips anyway. 

Sometimes I rid the stickiness

with my canines, the sweat pits of my 

arm, or the doom-scroll of today’s

species simply acting moronic…

it sort of feels like peach schnapps

for a 19-year old, all the vomit. 

Still, there is something about walking

emancipated with hope smelling the possibilities

of ginger cookies, pine needles, and the warm

hugs of familial scents, holiday sweaters. 

Sometimes I avoid avian stains on my walks, 

but realize I’ve been marked as a robber, 

who also walks with poetry.