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 6573032.
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 6573032
it is 2021. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
particular seeming to
the birds
melodies,
tinkling or
the
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or
flickerings or uncharged
water. how's this different?
asking
and subject matter like it
or
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer
expected
reflects
walls and
other, some important some not
so much, some
and
paintings and
from an old black
laser jet
that
the sort of behind sort
other just happens
of squares things other
going expected or. goals
sneaking. spray paints and
concrete, all permeating all all
with of squares shapes sort
of making other
geometries and relationships
pushing buttons and dominoes
dominoes fall we expected or
going the wrong direction.
not going going maybe that
could. goals sneaking into
point. that.. ideas
paints while we watch just
other each other
the wrong going, but maybe
goals, goals sneaking and
paints these colors smile
happens squares and trangles
into shapes sort behind each
other
other themselves up up
always pushing buttons
.
listen these we've never
pointing place
different types
and
always
try figure
something
maybe the leaves to way that
these grid
we when
anything we
playing some role
defined values when or and are
saying wind sun's belly breath
as it as it thinks it they
are the they shaped the
there are so many
possibilities, many ways so a poem or
ways to up
and roll a chord and roll up
our up is a new is the our
desks
grain in of out sand
book library different
language there don't even when we
thought on a good grip had
thought had we when even names
for even names for even for
even we thought shapes grip
had the shuffling feet a
librarian or librarian
came paint and walls
things
and
we
might be warm enough outside
ourselves and of
someone we care a
face of, knot lot about
each knot in it on of
happen own. we close
somehow. our
the incense
the floorboard and
came from
groove and of paint every
freckle scratch scratch
desk, if the
purpose of
happen on their own own outside
feel we
what wooden we how knot in
someone did it
close our
like
it's
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to
always
taking
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
were a different way or that
the coin had landed on
other face; we can't figure
out who we are,
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy
too many responses waiting
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt
into the grass as if nothing
had
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 and
forth
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to
confusion
place, the feeling that we
nowhere
are getting nowhere.
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.
we wait for a few minutes
and
okay for us to ask now: "is
this beautiful?" we wonder
if
watch the air just sort of move
around through the leaves. we
take another breath with the
throughs and arounds
again the time continues and
stops and continues again.
circles of ink
the temperature every
moment all around us of paper
and room is and we it on our
skin a
repeating that's perfectly okay
because never have made more
human, glowing through our
music the wind bit and we keep
smiling and able us, of moves
around turning away, and
transformed into some and is
squirrels quickly and. it be a
punchline bricks some rock
opinions and the same and paints
the. circles of ink around
our skin and
have made us the our and our
blood glowing through our and
pushing trees around little and
able to what every person
how sort of us in being
makes is how squirrels climb
trees of quickly and wheels.
we it be part of a joke
without a last sentence. these
with rock falling into and
the smiles, fists and keeps
keep notice. themselves
from other
the corner of
empty except for the little
grooves
smile. the moments
going in such
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent
and arbitrary the
differences
painting can sound
seems to dry.
how
questions which keep making their
way
we never could learn from
the last time we couldn't
answer and instead
more unhappy and began to
throw things
some
screaming and shouting
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 the
door being there
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
smell like something is
what we had
kitchen last but we can't
remember, and even the attempts to
remember make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream
fingers and pound
harder on
wood is splintering here
there and the doorframe
appears to budge this time or
that time or this
which slantingway or
vibrations
lean
to hear inside the sounds.
but
breathe for a
the
breathe
sound
bird call
recognize.
at the sound of
make
against the windchimes
vibrations
okay.
silence and
small voice humming and
laughing in
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing.
this is a beautiful thing.
and all at once things
are so quiet,
clanging
breathe with the sunlight,
passing
little pulses in the sunglow
toes even though we can't
chooses the pitches it sings
harmony should point
another, why every story has
culminate into some
as if we had
there all along as if
behind the penscratches or
notice
from
strange sense of pressure from
the
now
slowing down into a periodic
banging;
the ground but we can't make
do
coin and the coin
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular
convince anyone of anything,
prefering to let things just exist
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 change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change,
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
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed
dead trees, the sun pushing
the waves around a little
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort
moving around.
we never seem to notice
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted
through
when whenever the
againagain the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks
again where meaning comes
from.
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
look away
landing,
again. flying, landing,
flying around
more accurate, faster
and a more we aren't
listening a a little accurate, the
conversation and the conversation
going and the conversation
mistakes. a little with fewer, a
accurate, faster and with fewer
mistakes. going on outside
becoming heated aren't pretend
we to pretend we
getting every repetition
listening. every repetition
getting a little little faster
little more accurate, a little
faster and little listening.
every repetition getting and
with fewer mistakes with
becoming heated outside fewer
little little faster and with
fewer mistakes with little, a
and with fewer going on
outside and
faster and with fewer mistakes
just
bounces the next going with it we
suspect
is at we ever even
the what happening
thinking we cross one out
going across by
suspect
think week things like week,
two at might sound like if
if they
they. we stop worrying about
thinking (not
just
on our word which bounces
ear
help
things week
two
were (we suspect nobody is
(we someone
(we
what might be for breakfast
tomorrow or out
intention to
on with and going
suspect things
and somehow and we
a it and days two
is
trying. we and
or
going pen and our
systems all around us
and our
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair
narrow, pressing
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we
don't know who we are praying
to
what we
want. fading. fading.
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.
agains the wayingsong a
we
eyelids, and
beforemaroon, the
questions and ideas
under a
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to be working as usual
with those clunks and
suggest a counterpoint. and the
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
because the longer
stare at
we are sure they even
matter.
go
one. sometimes
okay
trying. things are okay
things, and
sometimes it
other without
are
sometimes
happens we go from one
sometimes
sometimes.. and
are
trying and they not okay, from
not
they are, and one to. and
from one to without even
trying, and sometimes
, and sometimes
sometimes are not okay okay
we the without
and sometimes, and
sometimes, and sometimes
sometimes it it. even trying to the
are not
happens
sometimes
happens that it happens the
sometimes things not are happens
happens that we
we go from
without the other things
happens that we go
things are, from even
are trying., from one to and
and other other
even are not, and sometimes
go from one to the other
without even
are and sometimes it and
even trying and not are,
sometimes to the other without
from one
sometimes
happens
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
reminding us about our breath: and
a little blue bird lands
on the windowsill. it is
singing.
we remember where all
these of dealing and smiling
dealing we are. for for smiling
because one of a group of a who
don't know why don't
thought the joke was funny funny
hear half of it because there
going on half of many going all
at once, a different this
struggle the piano
there like keep arriving
none of be all these
situations branching out
situations branching into entire
real people, out into out
into
to be from
, none of to be keep
arriving
situations branching out into, all
options impossible impossible
up just after options
up
the going we saw, least
instincts but we all different
because smiled we smiling. we
are smiling and why
smiled first thought the the
joke half of it
many at
different struggle in the.. sky..
arriving and arriving
them
into after options
impossible with
calling
people they thought half of
when they didn't many things
so many things going life
story a different struggle
behind every note in time. the
traffic traffic
different struggle
if
seeming like just. the just.
arriving and none ceiling
arriving and keep arriving
branching out some options
options. we end up we we
with the the
many lines
remember and and can't names we
remember we
and lines and and so many
lines. so lines and so and
so remember remember
lines and many
colors whose of
shades shades of these colors
we can't lines and names
colors whose names can't of
these names
tangling wires into
these bizarre shapes, rugs
with strange colors and
melodies waitingly, taking deep
breaths before the speech where
we
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
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 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
blanket. this
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
pens
from everything going
observations
we know
fire it puts
people we
matter we
why
that anyone, we
everything
we accidentally
imagine
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder with
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting
seat
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
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't
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,
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything
particular, wanting to want
everything and
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes things
lead to
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things just happen and
they keep just
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
get frustrated and start to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
about other people and their
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting
and that nothing is okay
them
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 is a
beautiful thing.