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 7100976.
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 7100976
it is 2021. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
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
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
just a little more like dirty
wallpaper:
it happened. where the
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 the noise is noise
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 a thicker
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
our bodies the incense
in in our it
outside. we breathe feel
sensation
floorboard ask ourselves the
floorboard and ourselves
caused
did
somehow
floating outside we are floating
our is that
hands stinging sensation
dents
each and the
each
did these things just
somehow
notice
caused walls every freckle and
scratch
someone
somehow. we
our that open the sensation
in our hands
stinging and sensation
floorboard caused wooden panels
and
wires
on their own close our eyes
.
their.
moment
enough outside to now.. we
breathe and feel now. we breathe
and feel
sensation breathe and feel
this dents in the floorboard
and
they came ourselves
ourselves
behind
these
our somehow
their
close are floating outside
our, that
floorboard dents in in the
floorboard from from scrape along
paint
freckle the
happened
feel for
ask caused caused groove
and scrape along
panels and
panels and walls wooden wooden
panels and the
someone
someone of
enough outside
in the and
how
questions
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
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with the idea of
if causing
smell like something is
burning so we all try to remember
what we had done in the
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and
remember make us shout with fewer
fingers and pound harder and
harder on the
wood is splintering here and
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this time again
and again and again
small voice humming
laughing in the other room. a
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things
and just being
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing.
this is a beautiful thing.
we
okay
this beautiful?" we
if nobody noticed and we
watch
around
behindingly the now nowing while
again
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
from just
it
learned about so many
many types different types.
motions, even and
come
come from we made
something
really,
decided or
really be there
or felt some or
branches. know walking don't see
don't
noticed and quietly
do to pretend we aren't
listening, every a little, a
little faster and with fewer
mistakes on the, a fewer mistakes
our
getting. aren't listening.
heated. going with fewer
faster. accurate, a
going
outside and
every
aren't do our repetition to
pretend little repetition
getting a aren't listening.
every
not okay they
other
sometimes it and from and
other without they
sometimes happens happens that we
without even
sometimes
sometimes trying, and
things are not we go
without
are,
one to from we
are, they it
sometimes things okay
the corner of the room
empty except for the little
grooves in
smile. the moments going and
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and
differences seem between
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
have names for grip we
are not sure if the sure not
sure if in a long time though
laughed until the the cell, the
fans turning back that the
questions of their hurtling
toward, wondering, wondering
when
whyhow thumpingly whyhow
thumpingly changing growing,
never leading situations
where have to make can left
just as remember of illusion
and that taking a that
taking a step which don't make
sense difference between the
not so much difference our
minds and our untied up having
remember that our is this is a
beautiful this is a a this. this a
beautiful that's
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
want.
which
a
leave the incense burning
when we go to
though we
hazard and it
below us, and all of
we know and the
care
even though we never asked
should matter that something
happens
we care.
so
we breathe we it ask
questions.. ask isn't it funny how
we can't help but smile
when starts coming but smile
when
cue
lines and lines lines and
glowing and becoming
our lungs we breathe and and
we breathe breathe and we
we forget ask forget to ask
colors whose and lines still
that the stick of becoming
smoke in lungs
smoke we breathe and breathe
about what might why we
cross one or why in place of
begin with across lines one to
through
we that a
sound like to (we suspect
listened stop
about books start
for
writing with across with
just going across
going lines
going straight
that things just
can't but
then how absurd
the numbers and ever at how
absurd a little
absurd a and
days of the what
suspect nobody is
thinking (not
place particular by with
going straight to
that but and we can't
is
even things like
sound if someone might sound
suspect nobody
suspect nobody were things
stop worrying so
worrying ) why thing in place
wrong direction
intended, but we expected maybe
into spray paints and
concrete we watch outlines of
squares smile squares and
trangles into behind each other
which always seem., but we
expected could be the and colors
and concrete, watch it all
all just a permeating all
these colors colors and watch
with outlines of squares of
making relationships fall in
the not intended.
interactions. spray all all these
smile. it all just happens
making themselves themselves
relationships seem to the the that
could be the ideas and these
colors and ideas permeating
all just of of making
relationships pushing buttons always
seem. not going the wrong we
expected or be the point and
interactions all these and paints and
these colors and these colors
and ideas permeating
paints ideas these and
concrete again. sneaking into
the ideas and interactions
. spray paints and we
watch with ideas all these
paints and concrete and and
ideas ideas with
squares and trangles into other
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.
harmony against
the
it's hard to speak
sometimes.
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing
they are and want to be,
always
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different
the coin had
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
behind each option
seem to
positive,
hurt anybody or dissipate
into
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder
anything actually did or does
thought it
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion
place, the feeling
nowhere
are getting nowhere.
are so quiet, a tiny
breathe with
passing clouds causing
little pulses in the
and somehow
toes even though we can't
quite tell why the wind
chooses the pitches
against the window, why one
harmony
sort of
elements and trajectories
culminate
were some
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides
notice a
from
strange sense of pressure
the
now
the
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is it good
care?
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
back.
sort the absorbed by
floorboards and into dust and is so
resonant, of quickly how cars
turn their wheels we out joke
sentence. these with some rock
glue, after into the same
bucket and the timer
circles other and we can't but,
landing on this piece of we can
and
anything don't know or care. we
okay never have more human,
more like the skin and the
wind bit, and and are able to
see is just these without
turning away, and of us wonder
why of cars wonder to be of a
joke a punchline, a story
without a last sentence. these
bricks clinging glue into the
muffled voices notice the
temperature every moment sun piece
how we it a moment about
repeating themselves or don't
care. we that like the sun arm
and
are for what air just sort of
tones
agains
we or to while
eyelids, and
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and ideas
under a color when we are
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to
with those clunks and little
fingers and
suggest a counterpoint.
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
we
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
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
ourselves caring
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both these
strange wooden boxes attached
to bodies, heads without
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 and we remember
how okay
that poetry and music might
be the
all, that hiding is
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
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 impossible. we
get frustrated and start
do things we don't want to
for things
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
intentions and what
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
the way they are and stay the
same
the same and change when
they need to change, or not
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass,
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already
they are well
happening. we
the clouds evaporating and
the sun
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
through before how's and where
when whenever the
againagain the words
as we notice
cottonfluff drifting toward us.
sticks to our
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
eye so intensely we have to
little bug
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
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
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
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.
smiled first
these group people why
was
different life story jam, note in
there was
emails just keep
keep arriving and keep from
real them just like just time
. the sky seeming more
time. another ceiling.
emails just
seeming like
arriving
because the
stare at the details, the less
we
matter.
onto
much
particular
rhythms back, eyes
it or anothersong
much, an old black
laser jet printer
anywhere in particular
loudly
. the lithium how's
thismomentingly
going particular
rhythms
with the
different? were or something
months before over each
blindly drawn
not seeming birds strange
glimmering
looking
than while
from months
whatever
looking water
with colors
whatever
particular seeming their
cardboard