Singled Out: Flying Machines
The song focuses on two situations in where I found myself unable to appropriately communicate my emotions and just deal with the problem at hand. In the past I've often found that in moments of great emotional stress I have to fight from shutting down and ultimately avoid any such conversations by yelling "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT." The opening stanza interrupts a failing romantic relationship I was having at the time; I had met this young lady late one night at a bar I used to frequent playing open mic nights. I had never seen her there before and I wanted her. She seemed to think she was all anyone was interested in that night and I thought she was full of herself but interesting. I kept my distance from her until the bar closed up. We jumped in a cab and drove to her place, making out in the car and spent the night together. After a few months of dating it was clear that I did not share the emotional intensity she had for me but that I had wanted her to inspire in her. I couldn't deal with it so instead of simply talking with her I just started acting weird and unfriendly. She's much smarter than I am and eventually caught on to my pathetic behavior... and let me go. I didn't say a word when she walked away from me, leaving the subway car we were both in, saying sadly while trying to sound un-affected " ugh! it's okay William, don't worry about it dude" rubbing my long hair as she left. She had made me feel pretty great and I couldn't even look up at her. I miss her very much and care for her well being deeply but I guess it makes sense that last time I tried to call her, her boyfriend answered screaming "who the hell is this". great right?
The next verse starts with the most memorable bowl of soup I will ever have. I was sitting at a kitchen table in Williamsburg Brooklyn across from my new girlfriend in late January, enjoying some Progresso New England clam chowder. Oddly enough the same flavor of soup that was a shared favorite of mine with my father, especially when he and I would travel to San Francisco when I was allowed to join him on business trips as a child. I was half way through my meal, my spoon not yet hitting the bottom of the bowl when the phone rang. My girlfriend answered and soon handed me the phone explaining that it was my mother and she sounded upset. "Ryan?" she said. "Hey mom! yeah it's me, what's up?" I answered. " ...Your father died...". Our call didn't seem to last long and as soon as we hung up I went into shock. A feeling I hadn't had since I was 11 or so, living with my father and one night while walking barefoot in his kitchen, I stepped on a shard of glass and while blood literally poured from my pudgy foot he ran to get a camera so that he could photograph me sitting in a pool of blood while in a state of pure disbelief. I wish I could've found that film before his belongings were thrown out. It would be a full year before I was told how my father had passed away. My grandmother believed he had died of a broken heart because in the three years before his death his wife, my mother, had divorced him. a family court judge had ruled that he only be allowed to see me, my brother and my sister while under supervision by a court appointed counselor ( when and if we wanted to see him) and had lost his job as a teacher. It finally came out that he had died of a morphine overdose. A drug that he and his friend would fool around with by injection in the same living room I grew up in. His friend later told me "Ryan I'm so sorry, he ( my dad) stood up and walked into the kitchen to get some water and just slumped over the counter! " I started going by William after I returned to NYC and I still find it funny and bizarre that after the phone call from my mother, that late and cold January evening about my fathers passing... I finished my bowl of soup.
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