Richard Zampella / From the Desk
Film · Memory · Preservation · Technology · Place
A memory of my father, the scars he carried, and a morning in cardiac intensive care.
As the son of a doctor, you were never permitted to miss school. Then one morning in 1979, my mother asked me to go with her to Newark Beth Israel.
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A memory of my father, a little girl, and an afternoon in April 1972.
I was six years old when the telephone rang and my father said, “We have to go.” More than fifty years later, I found the newspaper account of the afternoon I had never forgotten.
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Remembering Father Mychal Judge, Twenty-Five Years Later
I began writing this expecting it to be a remembrance of September 11, twenty-five years later. Instead, it became a two-day journey into a past I had not intended to revisit and a story I had not intended to tell.
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It’s Nothing Personal
I did not sit down intending to discuss the end of humanity with ChatGPT. I simply kept asking what seemed to me to be the next logical question.
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