From the Editor

Seeing that before long I must confront humanity with the most difficult demand ever made of it, it seems indispensable to me to say who I am.

                        -Friedrich Nietzsche

The Spring 2001 Issue of Inkwell Magazine received thousands of creative and fresh interpretations on its the theme of journeying—physical and spiritual journeys that produce hope, discovery, and rediscovery of the world evolving around us, and of ourselves—the who I am.

Through writing we are constantly journeying and confronting humanity, the reader, with our view of the world. But where do our journeys and our writing begin and end? A few months ago I would have said a journey ends when we return home, and a story or a poem ends on the last page, or the last period, or the final return above the word END. Now I’m not so sure if any journey or any piece of writing truly ends. In everything we touch we add life to it and therefore continuance. Whether we are aware of it or not, things, places, and people that we come in contact with on our daily and occasional journeys—whether to the store down the street, or to a shore at the other side of the world—the art we create as a result of these journeys continues to live on and exist with or without our interaction. We set it in motion, give it life—a first sentence or line, a first paragraph or stanza—then it takes on a life of its own whether we consider it finished or not.

Years ago my aunt took a trip to Wales and she befriended a photographer named Bergl Jenkins. When Eleanor returned home to Maryland, there was a letter from Bergl waiting for her and the two of them had remained dear friends ever since. A few months ago, on a trip home, I met up with my aunt. She told me, for the first time, about her love for Bergl, as well as her trip to Wales that produced their friendship. Then she took me into her writing room and sat me down at her desk.

“I’ve got something for you.” She turned her back to me and shuffled through a stack of photos then handed one of them to me. It was a photograph of a shack, I thought initially, but in looking it over, I knew there was something special about the little room in the photo she had given me. I turned the photo over and scribbled in Bergl Jenkins’ handwriting were the words, Dylan Thomas’ Writing Room and underneath that, Laugharne, Wales.

Bergl and my aunt remained friends for fifteen years. Shortly before Bergl’s death six years ago, my aunt started receiving many photos from her, “ . . . as a gift, but also to preserve. That you might pick a few of these to share with others is all I ask,” Bergl wrote.

What my aunt passed on to me was more than a part of Bergl—the photo has life, character, and personality. When I returned to New York, I framed the photo and after about a week of admiring it at my desk, I began to look at the picture in a different way. Aside from the inspiration it provided me, I realized the real meaning of the picture, grew to appreciate its worth as a gift and felt strongly about its need for continuance. It had journeyed and made its way to my desk and that only I should enjoy it seemed wrong considering where the picture began.

I decided to print the photo Bergl took of Thomas’ writing room on the cover of this issue of Inkwell, to illustrate a different view of journeying and to show appreciation for the idea of discovering new places and people. This cover has now become a thread permanently connecting Bergl Jenkins, the journey my aunt took that gave her such a dear friend, and the generosity of both these women to me, and to this issue of Inkwell Magazine.

The photo’s journey began with a Welsh writer that I had never met and his desk. A part of his life, character and personality—the who he was—became permanently ingrained into a photo taken by a woman that I had never met. It left her hands and journeyed its way to my desk—yet another writer, and another desk—a place where journeys end and begin.

                                                                                                --Steven Kerneklian

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