Wishful Thinking

There’s a song that I’ve been in love with lately: “Wishful Thinking,” the seventh song on Wilco’s new album. It begins with a wash of noise—I can’t name the instruments, but it reminds me of an approaching thunderstorm. Softly, the strumming of an acoustic guitar emerges from the disorder, as if it’s introducing not a polished, all-encompassing revelation, but a humble, tentavie one. After a few bars Jeff Tweedy’s voice follows. He sings:

“Fill up your mind with all it can know
Don’t forget that your body will let it all go
Fill up your mind with all it can know
What would we be without wishful thinking”

I can see my book shelves from where I sit, and it’s clear I’ve been trying to fill up my mind for a while. But as much as anything, I’ve tried to learn in college the business of living in the physical world, accepting that books and ideas finally aren’t going to save me. It feels pretty good to hear that Tweedy, a singer I adore, might think the same way.

But what would we be without wishful thinking? I love the ambiguity—it could be a cynical line, meaning that we only get by on fantasy or delusion. Actually, it could mean any number of things, which is what I love about Tweedy’s lyrics—they’re vague and abstract and leave listeners tons of room to interpret their own meaning. Sometimes I come up dry (I’d love suggestions on what “there’s a company in my back” means), but often I think he makes listening to the music just as creative as playing it.

Back to this particular line. Knowing barely a thing about Tweedy’s religious life, I’m convinced that, whether he knows it or not, this is a line about prayer—wishful thinking is a profoundly understated way of saying deepest longing. I’ve heard a great quote by some monk, whose name I keep forgetting: “Our minds would be surprised if they knew what our hearts said to God.” It reminds me of another of Tweedy’s songs, “Sunken Treasure” and the desperate line, “I am so out of tune with you.” Whether he’s singing to his wife or his band or his fans doesn’t matter—when I hear it, it’s a prayer.

I haven’t gotten very far in dissecting this song. I’d love to tell you about the tender, sustained guitar feedback after the first chorus, that almost dies but carriers on a few more aching seconds, or about the way Glen Kotche works his drum set so it sounds like a whisper, but I’m pretty illiterate when it comes to music terminology, and most of the adjectives I’m come up with sound silly. Which is okay—I’m grateful for songs that leave me powerless to understand them. About the line later in the song “the turntable sizzles / the casting of spells,” I don’t have a clue, but it gives me chills almost every time.

So instead let me tell you (it’s tough to know who I’m writing to on the web, but a lot of faces of friends and relatives keep appearing in my head) some of my wishful thinking. I miss my home in Grand Rapids like crazy. I miss front porches and cobblestone streets and too many friends. I’ve spent this week in suburban limbo, in a place that used to be my home but doesn’t feel much like one anymore, after leaving one of the best communities I’ve ever known, and before the Big Indian Adventure. I’m still incredibly excited about India and Woodstock School, but leaving my friends in Grand Rapids is a decision I’ll be second-guessing for a while. But spending time with my family has been a good thing, and seeing Hannah tomorrow after a week apart will be a very good thing, and I trust that being in Germany by Tuesday morning and Dehli by Friday morning will also be very good things, and who knows what levels of goodness of things will come after that?