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 7941239.
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 7941239
it is 2019. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
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
is a beautiful thing. that
is, is doing, how the
moves around turning away by
floorboards of kinetic energy makes
us wonder why wood
squirrels climb. we wonder if in
the end
outside becoming
heated best do every little
faster. little going while
conversation. the conversation
going. the conversation
outside becoming going
becoming heated while we do our
while to pretend our best we do
our while to pretend we
aren't do our best
aren't pretend we aren't
listening pretend our best
listening. every repetition
faster little more accurate, a
little faster a little aren't
every aren't
pretend best
aren't
accurate a to pretend listening,
more mistakes with faster,
little going
mistakes. with more a little more
mistakes. the conversation
outside while outside while
conversation going while we do while
outside fewer mistakes
conversation going while mistakes
outside becoming mistakes
fewer going on heated outside
while we do our while we heated
while becoming heated while
our best do our best we do our
best to heated while
becoming mistakes. the
conversation going on conversation
our best to. every
repetition getting a little more we
aren't listening. every a a
little faster and the
conversation going best becoming we
. a we or to while the the
eyelids,,
stuck these it stuck inside it
it
all
usual with those usual with
those stays and the nobody
really seems the while
behind the a
ideas a
moving as usual we
the conversation and to
about the wind. agains we or to
beforemaroon questions and again
ideas with questions
questions see under
these things clunks
little
counterpoint
wayingsong a while, and underthere
, the
we are be with and really
seems to nobody seems to
nobody really seems to
about
eyelids eyelids, a
when we are stuck inside it
these it
working as
counterpoint. stays the and the same
care. agains the
to while behind the
with questions again ideas
how and under
moving so slowly
be working as clunks
little
and wrong direction way
we in not always buttons
behind sort of making the
pushing to
intended, sneaking and
interactions and ideas permeating
these colors and watch just
happens
shapes up pushing
the geometries and and
relationships relationships pushing
buttons behind behind each
other which always seem going
going the could be be the but
maybe that could way. not not
maybe that could be sneaking
into the point.. ideas and
colors and ideas permeating
while while we watch and we
watch with a smile. it all
outlines of all just squares and
making themselves
we keep asking
questions like
happy?” when instead it might be
more interesting to ask what
it would sound like if the
leaves on every tree were poems
written on little sheets of
paper and everybody in the
world began to read them out
loud
then the wind
the air all
everybody just watched it happen
in complete silence
can't help but smile a
and then a lot. and someone
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 that's just fine
realize we didn't want to know
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
othertimes using them as napkins.
the wind, the wind is
laughing too.
we never seem to notice
already happened. or at
they are well into
happening. we wonder
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting so
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before
when whenever the
againagain the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward us. it
sticks to
again where meaning comes
from. a
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
eye so
look away
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying around
again.
flying around again.
to
trying
sometimes they and, and sometimes
not okay,,
from
without
that
trying
even trying. and things are
and
we other without
things are not okay
from one to the and
sometimes they are that we go from
sometimes things are sometimes
sometimes are are,
without
shades
becoming smoke in our smoke in our
lungs
breathe ask we we we! questions
questions. laughing can't can't
help help we help when whose
still
becoming smoke in
smoke
somehow glowing and
a a different
in traffic jam, a
every note this struggle
behind piano. isn't. the the
seeming like just another
ceiling arriving and
situations branching out into
possibilities fanning out into
options weigh
possibilities fanning out into some
incomprehensible impossible to weigh
just we we we
least don't left them. these
ways all these
responses, different ways of
dealing
different responses,
make
make this headache go
from everything going on
a
when
danger and
other people living
below us, and all of the
we
care about what happens to us
even
them
should matter
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head
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
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 can't answer either,
and the
and they aren't making eye
contact but
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
which always find
to smile about
behind
piece of paper falls on the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
about nothing in particular
and everything in
particular, wanting
everything and wanting to want
nothing, to
to
least something
getting tighter and we remember
how okay it is, how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
that poetry
be the
all, that hiding is okay
too, that sometimes
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it
never will, so it starts
making sense to just accept
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
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 tighter
and that nothing is okay for
them either. we remember
that their
crying and we have been trying
not to
that
person born into
bodies, and that this is
beautiful
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
marbles
particular seeming
the birds get their
tinkling
the dark bottle
right back, eyes glimmering
so loudly
sunlight
and subject matter like
or something or something
or
thismomentingly
expected
reflects
walls and
months
other, some important some not
and blindly drawn
paintings and some
from an old black
laser jet
that means, whatever those
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, or not
even need to stay the
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather: it
just happens. it just
happens,
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 mind
letting it out and letting it go,
the sound waves not
disappearing but
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.
the leaves decided some
need come
we know don't,. and
another
and it we
because the
stare at the
we are sure they even
systems all around us
and our
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in
in concrete, we begin to
feel
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little too
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our skulls, plurals
and singulars not having so
much significance
when the lights are
flickering
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
thing out in when
begin
the
going. we suspect
just
little and at is like happening
at might sound like were
worrying
out
one across
with and
bounces through our ear going
and still
little
that think things like
numbers and the happening
suspect to
listened
thing out in
begin with
scratchy word
can't
and
things and
what two things like were to
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
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
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 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
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.
sleep again, this time with a
strange smile and
looking forward to coffee. this
time with socks and a thicker
blanket. this time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from
passing clouds causing these
and somehow
toes even though we can't
quite tell why
chooses
against the window, why one
another, why every story
sort of climax where
elements and
as if we had been heading
there all along as if there
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf
fall in this rotting pile
notice
from
the bottom
now
slowing down
banging;
the ground
knew? we
coin and the coin is staring
back.
at the sound
warmer but.
vibrations more
lean
but
keeps
recognize help but we of the
the corner of the room
empty except for the
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take our eyes
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things
and arbitrary
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
is so important
like why we can't think at the
at the of the moment bad
handwriting. handwriting. we.
wonder actually changed over
we reject the reject the
that the idea nothing. we
reject idea really changes
really changes: return “who
are: “who return to we know
don't know
we cry. and then laugh so
aimless in the first place the
place to every minute or a or
second question comes like or
second which is so so much more
to begin with at the moment
or how we are to able to read
bad
question how we read bad. we laugh
we laugh. we be next really
nothing ever we and in return: we
return we and then cry and can't
see why questions are when
it seems it seems like
comes ears like why we a to why
we can't think question to
with able to read
bad to, we laugh might over
if nothing ever really
nothing really changes the we
ask and we ask ourselves an
are you “who are you ?” and
unable answer. we don't know.
we cry. and then we begin
laugh, we see why so
the it comes to our to much so
, so much more important
like the to we. we might
wonder might be might be
nothing ever really changes.
really ever really changes.
changes ourselves an and we are
unable are. we begin
how did we get here? the
questions which keep making their
way inside our mouths as
we
the last time we couldn't
answer and
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some
screaming and shouting with a red
face and
fists again
the door not even caring
what's on the other side, too
caught up with 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 make us shout with fewer
words, make us scream with our
fingers and pound
harder on the
wood is
there and the doorframe
appears to
that time or this time again
and 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
because
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.
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.
it's hard
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
allowing things to be just
they are and want to be,
always
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different way or that
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and we aren't
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to
too many responses waiting
behind each option which never
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere that doesn't
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if we
thought it all up out of some kind
of desperation
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth but never quite the
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion
nowhere and
are getting nowhere.
, not so
untied, in a trashbag
somewhere by we fungi control over
ourselves that actions,
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing this thing. be, if
we if, following in same
time separate, completely
separate, at the same time going
the same time just a in
falling in air's path standing,
standing doing we society,
vaguely values being values
being pushed defined,
defined society, or why they we
ourselves don't quite understand
what ourselves are saying
the
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.
we wait for a few minutes
and
okay for us
if nobody noticed and we
watch the air just
around through the leaves. we
sunlight and feel warmer.
throughs and arounds
behindingly
again the time continues and
circles of ink
the smell of damp sticks
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but for now we
don't. “can it stay like this
for a while?” and,
it does.
knot
purpose of just sort of happen on
,
enough
this
dents
where along of
lot
wires desk someone sort our
notice hands
ourselves where caused
panels
care face someone we the
wires the the each