Daytona 500 (500 words)

Dang Bamboo Buckaroo, sometimes I think life would be a whole lot easier without his persistent over-the-shoulder ”help”, as when he reminds me that sometime back in the early days of BR history some hopeful wannabe poet wrote several one-hundred-words-even sonnets but when called upon to produce them was unwilling or unable and thus can be assumed to have misrepresented these products as sonnets and their writer as a poet, since it’s doubtful as hell that anyone besides The Bard Himself could hold fourteen lines of iambic pentameter to an even one-hundred words even once, let alone several times, but I remain open to whatever proof the Buckaroo can bring to the page, and in the meantime I will continue writing this five-hundred-word run-on sentence that I call a “Daytona” (or sometimes a “Solara”) and remind readers that my writing history includes roughly half the words in the original BLACKSTONE LIMITED, each paragraph of which was a single run-on sentence, a feat that remains unprecedented and unappreciated to this day by all except yours truly, the author himself who recently submitted a rather long short story to the editors of BR#45 by email, a submission those editors say should never be made to any publisher not accepting email submissions without saying whether they themselves accept same or not, but I did it that way because email is the only format over which I seem to have some control, including my printer, which apparently got Corona-19 during the original surge, which makes me wonder if BR’s editors would accept handwritten entries like the one I am writing if I were to write much more neatly than I am doing now, which is almost unreadable even to me, its writer, which makes me wonder how many other aspiring writers do virtually all their rough draft writing with pen and paper during these modern times when cursive is not even encouraged, let alone taught, and where I become increasingly an outsider who still prefers the printed page I can hardly decipher to the Kindle I read quite easily but with less pleasure, which brings us back to the hundred-word sonnet and the five-hundred-word Daytona (or Solara) and the decreasing relevance of ink on paper, of paper as page, and of pages as books of sonnets, or of words without pages, as in “Solara”, the Russian equivalent in five-hundred-words to our “2001” as the sender of the hundred-word sonnet the Buckaroo claims to have been written but fails to produce, though maybe the author has submitted one or all of them to the editors of BR#45 , and we will be amazed to be the audience to literary history in the making and, who knows, the world’s first pictorial “Daytona” (or “Solara”), by email, of course, and who knows where that willl lead if we just keep them coming, one word after another, then another?