x
we accidentally imagine
by andrew yoon
this is a book of mutable poetry. it exists along a
field of probability with an effectively endless number
of possible realizations. every time this page is opened,
a program generates an entirely new version of the book.
some elements change more often than others. the random
seed for the version you are looking at is 8859583.
because there is a seed number stored in this window's url,
refreshing this page or opening a link to this url
will render the exact same contents you see now.
if you would like to share or keep a link to this version of the book,
you can use this .
if you want to visit or share a random new version of the book,
use this one .
to link to an exact version of a particular poem,
hover over the poem's title area and click the link
which appears that says "fixed link". you will also
see one that says "mutable link" - this points to where
that particular mutable poem lands in a random new book.
try following the mutable links of a particular poem through
different versions and see how it transforms.
you can print or (if your computer has the ability) download a
print-ready pdf of this version of the book using your browser's
printing functionality. some elements of the display will change
to make it more suitable for printing. (you may want to modify your
printing settings to disable the automatic header/footer generation
most browsers do.) please note that as i make
improvements to the mechanics of the program, the content you see
here will likely change, even with a fixed seed - if you want a
truly fixed version, please use the printing method.
the code for this entire project is under the gpl3 license and is
completely free to read, use, and redistribute. the most up-to-date
code is available on github
here .
andrew is a composer, programmer, poet, and bad pianist. you can
find some of his other projects online at his personal website
here .
...
we accidentally imagine
by andrew yoon
seed 8859583
it is 2019. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead only become
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the
if causing the lights to
flicker and
smell
burning so we all try to remember
kitchen last but we
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time
and again and again
trangles outlines of
other of
in in the wrong direction
dominoes. not not going or
intended the
the ideas into paints and
and and concrete, all ideas
, ideas watch with a smile
and sort up sort the
geometries and dominoes
in the wrong intended the
sneaking into
into the thoughts concrete,
all ideas it all into other
things happens things, shapes
trangles up behind each
geometries
relationships fall in the expected or
going going the but maybe the
point maybe maybe that or
maybe into paints paints and
concrete
we wait for a few minutes
and wonder if
okay for us
this beautiful?" we wonder
if nobody noticed
watch
around through the
take another breath with the
sunlight and
throughs and arounds
behindingly the
again the
stops and continues again.
questions like “will this make me
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and
the air all around and
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just
realize we didn't want to know
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air,
othertimes using them as napkins.
laughing too.
to anyway. we
patterns in
felt some
these patterns
below.
we
and clock notice that the
is in
but somehow to the
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
everything
remember why, but for now we
for a while?” and, for
it does.
we wonder what
make us
from everything going on
scratching
a quote
leave the incense burning
when we
though
hazard
other people living
below us, and all of the people
we know and
care about what happens
even though
them to. we
we care. and everything
so
we
the changes until
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
single
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice
cottonfluff drifting toward us.
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely
look
landing, and flying
flying around again.
getting a with fewer
mistakes. the conversation
heated outside becoming going
. the conversation going
the conversation outside
becoming.
little faster and more a aren't
every repetition little more
getting and the
little more listening
listening. every best listening
little more getting
accurate,
accurate, a little faster on
outside while we. our
more faster and with fewer
mistakes with a little, a little
particular sense of
across
happen somehow and we help how
absurd
things
things same time might if
someone were were trying and if
to listened. (not
worrying might one without sense
of
and one by one
scratchy straight the
going ear
that things somehow and we
somehow and
things
smile then at
things like happening same
time
sound like if
like if were to nobody is ) and
they were ) and if they were
trying to write things
each of if sort of happen
just
close our
might enough
stinging
notice ourselves
someone, in
the of
are floating the
our it might be enough
outside to open feel this this
stinging sensation breathe
dents
scratch
face someone we
did
own eyes we
enough outside to open the.
now.
sensation our
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
seat of an old car and someone
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
eyes which still say so much,
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting to want
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it starts
making sense to just accept
this and close our eyes and
smile a little but somehow
this feels
get frustrated and
do things
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this
beautiful thing.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize
haven't stood up
chair and its arms a little too
narrow,
sides of our skulls, plurals
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want,
want. fading. fading.
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow
toes even though we can't
chooses
harmony should point
another, why every story
sort of climax
elements and
culminate into some bigger thing
as if we had been heading
were some kind
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in this rotting
notice
from
the bottom
now
slowing down
the ground but we can't make
do we care? is it
care? would
coin
back.
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
glowing
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and we
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting
behinds toward
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
around,
and just
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this
empty except for the little
grooves in
smile. the
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how
and arbitrary
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
seems to dry.
and just like that, the
page turns for us. the next
series of random numbers fill
the screen and we begin to
imagine dots and we begin to
connect them and agree and
disagree with them, relate to
them and question them and
share them. the page glares.
we glare. everybody is
glaring and nobody is laughing
and then one of us starts
laughing, and another one of us
starts laughing, and we are all
laughing and the paper is
laughing and the inkdots are
laughing: the numbers are
laughing too.
matter.
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things
the way they are and stay the
same when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
even need to stay the same or
need to
instead want to
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind
letting it out and letting it
the sound waves not
disappearing
thousand surfaces and every
blade of
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through
in the air just sort of
moving around.
while
can't
and hear inside our
chests more okay
vibrations
quiet every
our not
again the
breathe
sound
it's hard
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't figure
out
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere
are getting
tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
we finally speak our
minds: "won't everybody
please, please stop this
cruelty? can't we see how
unnecessary it is?"
window creaking under winds,
some oil spilled in a parking
lot.
who's before and after or some
some behind throughingly, a
manual for writers of research
papers about electrical
engineering and game theory,
complex analysis and early
marxist painting; the
walls of this place have
shoulders that are
sagging, somewhere in these
pages an actual answer to a
question that matters. a new pair
of jeans, a holiday
decoration left up for months, a
lightbulb which doesn't fit even
though we could have sworn the
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and wonder why we
care about the dissonance,
why we should prefer one to
the other. we conclude that
we're all just bits of air
moving with the waves of some
song we can't hear: now
banging on the wooddrums, the
thoughts and the doubts, hopes or
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains
the breezings, the sine
waves, the eyeballs thrown
left and right or up and down
or is that a sign of
happiness, of
peacefulness? who's to tell what's
harmony and what's dissonance?
who's to tell the words of the
song when each moment's just
a few bits of data?
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
through a word
the arounds and behinds
lost somewhere in the mix,
the breath being exhaled
before we even noticed it was
inside our bodies, each note
rising just a little higher or
just a little more like dirty
wallpaper:
it
music got faster. where the
blue became green, where the
light was switched on and the
newer waves began to
interfere with things and distort
the shapes, canceling out
or multiplying or
performing more complicated
operations until
and the signal is noise and
the noise is still noise yet
somehow wider, more sideways
and spinningly and
uppingly and backwardly, more
harsh and out of sync, now neon
colorlines and batteries, strange
gaps in the spiral
patterns but something about
them which makes us feel the
walls are moving further away
and the room is becoming
smaller, that one moment is
another and the second hand is
somehow different this time
around. we cannot help but go to
sleep again, this time with a
strange smile and already
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
in an to see everything
us for person and object
doing, how moves around us in
eyes absorbed by the some
bits of dust is resonant how
quickly turn their wheels the of
joke without to one with some
rock glue, one screams, the
ticking and
every second comes our so,
think of think of a begin
moment or good question to read
the moment or are we are able
, laugh, we and what or
reject the idea that question
in we are unable
laugh see can't these every
minute like or question comes
which why we a good question to
able,. laugh. wonder what
might over these years
nothing really. idea ourselves
are answer unable. to begin
to and then we begin to
laugh, and laugh, laugh.
can't we see in the first or new
to question to our, so much
like why like we can't think
of at begin with
with the or are able to read
bad. laugh, and we wonder
actually wonder might be,
changed anything, anything
over or, next years or if
years or if changes and we and
we and “who are you don't
know. and then cry. and.
can't we see why these
questions when first place
like second a new question
comes, so, so much more
important
with at the how we read bad
handwriting. we laugh, and we
and laugh
what might be next, changes
and we ourselves
unexpected we are to answer. you ?”.
we begin we begin to cry to
cry we begin to laugh, laugh
and we begin to why we see
seems like our ears which is so
, so, why moment or how we
laugh if or if nothing ever and
we ask ourselves an
unexpected question in return: ?”
know. and. can't we it every
so, so, so much more like
think we think of a good
question to begin with at bad
laugh what might wonder next,
if actually changed over
these over
the ask
we. begin to laugh, and
laugh. can't we see why
questions are
have to make sense to
make sense that
step things which don't make
much between much
difference between our own so much
shoelaces on or off or tangled near
trashbag somewhere near by and
fungi we remember ourselves,
over ourselves control over
ourselves, beautiful this is a
beautiful a beautiful thing a
beautiful beautiful thing
beautiful this thing. is
beautiful thing. this and that's
completely if okay, pollen a ground
the the same time goal doing
for hours, what anyone is
what anyone is saying we or
and it or it understand what
we what we ourselves are
saying are ourselves
understand what saying why
still rising and rising and
belly still as are when or a
ways and up that there in on
our desks. of combinations
of words probabilistic
relationships imitating meaning
probabilistic our ears emptiness or
their emptiness
soullessness if we prefer to think.
the illusion smallvoiced
reminder that we smallvoiced
dot sand out of sand out of
place sand out library
there are pictures of things
of things we recognize or
have or we colors is a in a long
time whose name we remember
even laughed
from an from playing left
playing left phone old the
galaxies themselves are
be working seems to
usual those clunks and those
those
woodenbits
the same seems to really
really
behind the underthere and
ideas
these things
clunks
those fingers and woodenbits
a counterpoint. and to
care, and underthere under
when stuck inside it
the clock working
marbles in
not going anywhere in
the
melodies,
tinkling
right back, eyes glimmering
sunlight or
flickerings or uncharged
batteries.
water. how's this
asking between colorshades
and subject
or something
or anothersong
thismomentingly
expected somehow
reflects in
so
paintings and
from
laser jet printer, whatever
that
meaning.
note in this traffic jam
jam, a different struggle
behind every. maybe more time
but
another. if. maybe if there but
there there was more seeming
like and and keep arriving
and none of them ever keep
arriving and none
branching out into entire stories
, people
possibilities fanning out
just
as any,
smiling we
don't
one one gestures
amplifying
hear half so many things once
, in this
going a going all a so
this traffic different in if
there was sky another and none
of of from these
situations stories tree options
after options impossible to
end just for now but we we
remember circumstances calling
for. and and don't know why
because
because why these social
gestures
thought thought the joke joke
didn't even many things once,,
a different single car
car at story different,
this traffic traffic jam,,
traffic traffic in the piano.
maybe
seeming like just another keep
keep
these situations branching
some after weigh.
good as any one we saw first as
looking
ways these different
responses, different responses
are and of because one of us
smiled first? these social
gestures
didn't
every single
traffic jam, every
. the another. emails
just keep and people
situations situations branching
into some
out out
options impossible to.
incomprehensible tree, options after. we
saw first and end up and that
seems, for now
different different
different, different smiling why
smiled first gestures
amplifying across
things going story in every
single in
isn't the none to be none
options to with the impossible
we end
to the other
sometimes things are not okay, are
,
and sometimes it
trying
without from one to from one to
the even
sometimes sometimes they not, and
are and it it
sometimes things happens
go
even things
sometimes they are
not, and from one even
and sometimes things are
and sometimes
the
things, and even
sometimes
, and
we ask ourselves some
question we can't hear, muffled
because our heads are
underwater, this cold sensation
pressing on our foreheads while
we feel our socks becoming
heavy, cottonfibers grabbing
skin and dragging behind our
feet, cold passing between
our toes. maroon painted
walls and a thick sweater,
crinkling plastic bag full of
snacks. we notice it is becoming
later every moment, and that
as soon as we count one
number there is another in
front of that, always room for
another one or zero or eighty
seven or pencilcase
dirtyshoe, these power outlets
rusting over even though we
can't see where the water
could have come from
the carpet telling which
way people walk most
without asking why they walk it
so often when it seems
there are so, so many other
ways to go and that this way
isn't even the easiest or most
efficient or beautiful or
surprising: they are taking the path
because it is the path they take,
and we can't help but
laughalittle at how beautiful that is
not to say that one is better
than another or that anyone
is wrong for going the way
they do or that we think we are
better than going that
particular way to the couch, but
that we know in the end we are
going to go that way too and
that's just fine. it's just as
good an option as any so we
don't see a reason why not
beautiful enough and it's
surprising enough
may be the most beautiful
and surprising thing of all
at the moment.
we are breathing. and we
are still breathing. one
thought and another passing by
in the street while we ask
ourselves if this is going
anywhere
focusing on something else like
the way the smoke is
drifting away from the incense
stick, or the sound our eyelids
make when we blink. is there a
place for rushing anymore?
the softmurmurs again,
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.