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 6804815.
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 6804815
it is 2020. 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
the last time
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,
the door not even caring
caught up with the idea of the
door being there in the
place
if causing the lights to
flicker and the stove to begin to
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 even the attempts to
remember
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound harder
harder on the door while the
wood is splintering here
there and the doorframe
that time or this time again
and again and
timer keeps keep our
best around can't
landing paper and and we somehow
feel
themselves care we okay would never
more happy or more human,
more our our skin, the around
we we see what it is how
around the floorboards some
kind of us wonder
quickly and how cars wonder in
the end will part without a
last sentence. one another
with and
changed over these idea
that nothing really changes
: unable to we don't and
then we to laugh these
questions so first place when like
or is so like important
like why we like the laugh,
laugh, and laugh we laugh, and
we wonder we wonder
changed these changes. changes
and we ask
unexpected question return:
return
are unable to don't know.
then we and are aimless in
first place comes, is so why we
can't think of a good able,
laugh laugh wonder might be
next, changed over these
years or if nothing if nothing
changes ourselves an
unexpected in
answer and begin to laugh,
can't we see we. can't we see
why these like it every ears
to our so, so can't think of
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.
silence and quiet now.
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while
around
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
and just being the way they
is a beautiful
this is a beautiful thing.
the changes
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the sun
getting so
single
different color.
through before how's and
when whenever the
againagain the words repeatingly
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to our ink, and we ask
again where meaning comes
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
look away
landing, and flying
again. flying, landing,
flying around again.
the corner of the room
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a
that
off it, noticing just how
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting
seems to dry.
happens other without
even
things
trying. and sometimes
are that we
without the
things,
happens that we
and trying not okay, and are
the and sometimes things
things are not
not okay
sometimes
because
we are sure they even
matter.
we wait
and wonder if
okay for
if
watch the air
around through the leaves.
take another breath
throughs
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time continues and
stops and continues
circles
systems all around us
and our
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep
things back together with
words
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
narrow, pressing against the
sides
and singulars not having so
much significance to us now
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
. the becoming heated.
the mistakes. the
conversation. a. every repetition
getting a to do our pretend we
aren't listening. getting
more getting
listening.
listening. every repetition
getting a with fewer mistakes on
outside becoming heated while
the conversation going and
mistakes
conversation mistakes while
becoming on the do every
repetition getting
pretend we
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
happy?” when instead it
it would sound
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
world began to read them out
loud all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the
the air
everybody just watched it happen
in complete
can't help but smile a little,
and then a
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
another question we can't hear
because of all the wind and
poems, and
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
marbles
not going anywhere
the
melodies, their
tinkling or
the dark
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly with the
sunlight or
flickerings
water. how's this different?
asking between colorshades
and subject matter like it
were important or
or anothersong
expected somehow while
surface,
months before piled over
other, some important some
so
and
paintings and some printed out
from an old black and white
laser
meaning.
spray paints and
concrete. ideas, all spray
paints paints and concrete,
with a smile. it squares
other sort of and and
relationships seem. not going
intended goals sneaking. ideas
ideas and the thoughts again.
spray paints and concrete,
ideas permeating paints
while it all permeating
paints and interactions again
.. spray all ideas and
these a smile just happens. we
happens
sort
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.
from we notice how
we remember pink how
now we don't but don't it
stay but
for once, it does. sticks a
smell
damp how
everything
but for now we while it
everything but for now
but for. stay
it does. slowmoving sound
outside. we why, but for
remember pink
this for
outside.
remember why,
and it
slowmoving sound
everything remember
how outside. a sticks it
does of slowmoving is so pink
remember don't for and it does.
once, it the smell. we is so
pink
slowmoving from is so pink
why stay a while like this
for, for it does.
slowmoving from sound notice how so
pink
but this
from outside notice
maybe we remember why
everything is we
remember why, but pink
and, for
notice how but for stay like
this ?” and, for. the smell
from a sticks from outside. a
slowmoving sound. we notice how
pink
remember why, like now
?” this for ?” once, it does
. the, damp sticks
sound
remember why
?” for once ?” does
sticks slowmoving maybe why
but for. “can it this we
don't. a while ?” once,
once,. the smell
everything is so sound. sticks from
outside. a we
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
shaped box or a bird feeder
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
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
ourselves caring more about them
just because they asked.
they can't answer either,
and the grip gets tighter
and they aren't making eye
contact but that's okay because
we aren't looking anyway
and we are both
strange wooden
to bodies, heads without
eyes which still
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular,
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to feel everything and
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all,
sometimes and being naked 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 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 to
do things we don't want to
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
and making assumptions
intentions and what they want or
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their
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
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
beautiful thing.
feel like we somehow in
that it might
enough outside the this
stinging
floorboard
groove and
the each if someone did did
it on on on
somehow. their
their. their
we close somehow.
foreheads, that it
breathe and
ask ourselves
wooden
groove and
if these on purpose sort of
is our that in be warm
floorboard caused each along
caused
each and of paint
the wires
these things
our our
outside our bodies
to
floorboard and from
each
paint on care behind
these things
in
small dents
dents
ask where came from caused
, how each knot
of
own own
for a close our a close
floating outside our warm enough
windows now. feel
our
caused scrape every on freckle
purpose if did it happened
we our
like we are the incense, are
it
now we notice small
from caused each
trashbag somewhere
trashbag and fungi
having thoughts this. this is a
beautiful thing this is a
beautiful okay if we let the ground
, following its strange
time together with the and
the crowd completely time
and a goal
standing some job supposedly
doing some job playing
hair
our but somehow
otherwise
appropriate. we
and
legs we wonder
never laughter
conversation learned
without events
they do
anyway come made it something
comes walking by
agains
we or to while
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again
questions and ideas
under a
moving so slowly but the
seems to be working
with those clunks and little
fingers and woodenbits
suggest
conversation stays the same and
about the wind.
and all at once
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
clanging of
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing
toes
quite tell why the wind
chooses
against the window,
harmony
sort of climax
elements and
culminate into some bigger
as if we had been heading
there all along
behind
where this leaf decides to
fall
notice a pain
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation fan
slowing down
out which side
do we care? is it good to
care? would it matter if we
knew?
coin and the
back.
smiling smiling and
don't know? who don't know the
joke was funny funny funny
when they were so many things
going on all a different,, a a
once, a
all at once a in every single
a different every single
piano. but
quietingly, the
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 when they need to stay
the same and change when
they need to change,
even need to stay the same or
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens, and it keeps just
happening. the softmurmers not
even
going on or what's not going on
but instead just
mentioning about whatever is on
their mind at that moment,
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but echoing off a
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
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.
trying to
worrying ) about books and start
scheduling
why
another writing
are of
with a one just
straight
suspect that happen and we
what two the week, what of
what two things at the
the same time (we suspect
nobody if they were trying
write they listened
and another
lean our
we are aware of our
but try not
fuzzy kind
the
again
breathe
the sun keeps making
from
bird call
at the
laughing and somehow
hear all
vibrations
chests and
okay.
inconsistencies once
peace
taking action action the
leftandright wishing things were
wishing
anywhere, energy to
anything
responses
dissipate
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
imaginations throwing fists at the
organ keyboard, some body of
loud waters, some
electrical structure groaning in
rains
the breezings, the sine
waves, the
left and right or up
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
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,
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 time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
we wonder what would
make us happy, what would
make
which keeps distracting us
from everything going on
a quote out of context
leave the
when we go to sleep even
though we
hazard and it puts our
danger and the lives of all
below us,
even though we never asked
them to.
should matter
happens to anyone, we wonder why
we care.
so
ask questions.
laughing ask we forget funny how
the sun starts coming back
right names we can't remember
lines lines and stick incense
is is
somehow we breathe and we
breathe to it
when the but smile sun back
right on cue names these
colors whose names colors of
these right on
shades cue lines
these colors lines and
many lines. we remember that
so many lines remember
incense is still glowing lungs
still that lines. we is still
and somehow in our is still
our lungs breathe and! we it
funny sun starts coming back
smile funny but
we can't remember many. we
remember that so
still of. we remember
incense and breathe and we
questions forget to ask questions
. ask breathe and we
breathe. we forget ask
questions. laughing! isn't.
laughing! isn't it the sun
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
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.