loss – Ainsley MacIntyre

25 Years of Pixar Tears: Ranking The Saddest Moments (5-1)

December 16, 2020December 17, 2020by ainsleymacintyre2 Comments

{This list is a continuation. You can read part one here.}

It was partway through organizing this top five that it first dawned on me, what an absolutely insane task I had assigned myself. Who volunteers to endure this much consecutive emotional turmoil? And then decides the next step is to take all of that pain and analyze it, attempt to pinpoint exactly which pain levers had been pulled and how hard and why? Me, apparently, and you, thankfully, if you’re reading this. It took me longer than expected to gather myself up between making my sad, sad points. It took me more boxes of Kleenex than I expected as well. I can only nervously hope that reading it is a more pleasant experience. Godspeed

Continue reading →

movies

25 Years of Pixar Tears: Ranking The Top Ten Saddest Moments (10-6)

December 2, 2020December 16, 2020by ainsleymacintyre5 Comments

I wrote yesterday about the significance the Toy Story movies have had for me at various moments throughout my life, and the general reverence I have for the culture of creativity that Pixar has fostered. This list of the studio’s saddest ten moments was originally supposed to be attached, but because brevity is a skill I have not been blessed with, I thought I’d break it up in the interest of giving your reading/crying eyes break. In fact, two breaks. Please enjoy items ten through six today (as much as you can, considering we’re discussing moments of unfathomable sadness), and check back for five through one tomorrow.

Continue reading →

Uncategorized

The Art That Changed My Life: On The Goldfinch, grief & my grandfather

March 22, 2020June 29, 2020by ainsleymacintyre7 Comments

Before and after. Everything is before and after. And the middle is The Goldfinch.

I started reading Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch the night before my grandfather suffered a major fall that put him in the hospital. I finished it two and a half weeks later, on the morning of his funeral.

Each of the days in between felt slow, suffocating in their sad sameness. I remember them now as a blur of anxious interactions with doctors and nurses, brief bursts of futile optimism and long hours of reading by his hospital bedside. I remember a numbness so deep I suspected it might be permanent. To feel anything at all during that time took intentional prodding. I listened to music too loud. I took showers too hot. And I read The Goldfinch.

Continue reading →