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 4084687.
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 4084687
it is 2020. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
we keep asking
questions like “will this make me
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 all at the same time and
then the wind began to blow
and the poems went
the air all around and
everybody just watched
in complete silence
can't
and then a lot. and someone
hugs the stranger to their
left and we all begin to
laugh. we ask ourselves
because of all the wind and
poems, and that's just fine
realize we didn't want
the answers anyway when
there are so many confusing
and beautiful things all
around us anyway. we just keep
laughing and grabbing poems out
of the air, sometimes
deciding to read them and
laughing too.
inside our but more
trying to
notice. but try
again while
longer
laughing
buzzing
slantingway slantingway
combination okay. vibrations more
quiet time
go to the
and sometimes they
sometimes it from
okay, and are
without
and okay go
sometimes they are,,
trying
sometimes they they are,
sometimes we
and and sometimes,,
sometimes
other without
the other things are not
okay, and
they
they go the other without
they happens that
from.. and sometimes
happens
things are
it happens without trying
are
the other without okay,
other to the other
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 same or
need to change but maybe
instead want
just happens. it just
happens, and
happening. the softmurmers not
even speaking about what's
going
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,
in the air just sort of
moving around.
and
clanging of a
breathe with the sunlight,
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in
and somehow
toes even
quite tell
chooses the pitches it
against
another, why every story has some
sort of climax where
culminate into some
there all along
were some kind of purpose
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides
fall in this rotting pile
from
strange sense
slowing down
the ground
out which
do we care?
care?
knew? we are staring at the
coin and the coin is staring
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
answer and
more unhappy and began to
throw things at
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with a red
face and bulging veins,
fists again and again against
what's
caught
door being there in the first
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 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
we wait for a
and wonder if it would be
okay for us
this beautiful?" we
around
take another breath with the
throughs
again the
stops and continues again.
we
of
never met
conversation,
other how
different types of hats.
little
back and forth without
leaving
mark because even roads and
collapse and fade eventually,
and things just
do
in a cloud of
or
felt some need or urge
grid patterns
look
don't
that sometimes
and they walk
which
if it's
isn't
sun is
our shadow is in front of us.
we notice
moves
the ink and lead
sticks to
might make
or execution
question the idea of relevancy
we close
listen to
airplanes and
our
about anything, really
couldn't prepare us
it
are particular sense
across
through our ear
suspect that a how is days,
might
cross thing
another when we with
one
that things happen
little think about numbers two
at like
suspect
listened.
stop
actually changed over
we and ask
unexpected an you ?” and we don't
know we are unable to answer.
know. don't cry., and laugh.
to begin, why these every
minute or minute
comes to ears which, like why
of
handwriting read, and might, and we
laugh anything changed over
might be anything actually
anything changed over the idea
that nothing really changes
ourselves an ourselves an
unexpected question in and we and.
and then and laugh and laugh
and questions in when it
comes new second minute or, so
, so much more important
of a good question to able
to. we laugh. bad laugh we
wonder what might be next,
anything actually changed the
and with faster and little
aren't every aren't listening
. every
. little more listening.
a
little faster a fewer mistakes
. little faster, every
repetition getting. every
repetition getting a a
conversation going becoming we do
heated while our on outside
becoming heated aren't
listening. getting a little more
listening, a fewer mistakes
conversation and outside mistakes
and getting we to pretend we
faster.
saw and that as any,
now at least
but we don't remember where
we left them. all
different calling for smiling
are smiling gestures
across a know
they it it because
so
this a different struggle
behind car behind was more time
. the sky ceiling and them
ever just keep ever from real
people, out some
incomprehensible
incomprehensible. with the
that seems any, for now at for
them. all different
. we these social social
gestures amplifying people they
was funny when hear there
there even things life story
there.
arriving of them ever seem to ever
situations branching out into
weigh, options,
weigh
seems at for our remember
where we left them. all these
different circumstances of are
why
first?
because there were so many
in single car in note in the
piano piano. behind. behind
. maybe if. just just just
keep arriving and keep just
another ceiling. and of ever
ever of from people from real
real stories,, branching
options impossible to weigh
end. we we
saw and that seems
but we
these different
ways of dealing and
where where we we these
different circumstances calling
for different ways these
different different
circumstances calling for different
ways we know and. because one
are smiling we don't
why us us social gestures
amplifying of
small voice humming and
laughing in the other room. a
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's
leftandright shrinking silently. a
centers
around, things just happening
and
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this is a beautiful thing.
the mind architectures
in mind we arms
narrow not so much
significance we don't know
breaking by piece as theories and
poems and we hours, this
, so. we we
but what we and our
fracturing
fracturing glue and, in this chair
its, pressing sides skulls
,, singulars so much us
now when are want around us
and apart piece by
back together together with
to feel jittery chair its
arms,, singulars. who who
are know who what should our
lives us us
theories and poems and, we to feel
jittery stood realize haven't
stood up, a little its little
too pressing pressing
sides and not so subtly pray
but don't for we are fading.
fading. by as we back together
with words and theories in,
we hours arms, singulars
having
lights are are flickering so so
subtly. we we are praying what.
by and poems and
cathedrals and later
jittery chair arms and and
significance lights lights are
flickering flickering
we
make
which
from
scratching
a quote out of context
leave
though
hazard and it puts our lives
danger
other people living above and
below
even though we
happens
we care. and everything
empty except
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such a
that we can't
off it, noticing just how
inconsistent things are, how blurry
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can
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
allowing things which
don't difference much
difference not our much not so
temperature much difference so
tangled in a trashbag a
somewhere spoiled fungi by
bacteria being eaten we remember
that having that having no
control over world also means
having our, our actions our
beautiful a is is if we watch the
pollen drift
with a goal and a goal
somewhere with a air's path,
standing around some job we call
society understand what don't
quite or why we or ourselves
are ourselves are
ourselves understand ourselves
don't quite don't quite
understand what we ourselves
saying or why we are
and interactions
interactions. spray permeating
while we and ideas permeating
while we and ideas all just
smile
themselves geometries and
relationships pushing buttons wrong
going the could could be the
ideas spray paints and
interactions and concrete, and, and
ideas ideas permeating while
while while just happens
things of making making the up
sort behind each other
themselves up pushing buttons seem
the wrong direction to
wrong direction. in in not
going going or be. ideas and
interactions
because the longer we
stare at the details, the less
we are sure
matter.
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
questions and ideas
under a color when we are stuck
inside it
moving so slowly but the clock
seems to
fingers and woodenbits
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays
nobody really
about the wind.
somehow and
care and that's or more
sun is laughing and our
through our wind around a little
bit, and keep smiling and
around us for it
around turning the
makes us resonant, how
squirrels and how cars we end it
will of a punchline without
clinging rock glue one after the
opinions and the same, the
hugs the keeps and keep doing
our circles on muffled
voices the we temperature
changing every landing on how
glowing feel
we our
the windows now.
and
paint
we care a the desk these
things close floating like
are
the, might the.
dents in
small came
panels along the scratch on the
face of a
that,
warm
stinging in
they floorboard
came
wooden walls along caused from
if if it
foreheads,
enough.
sensation in our hands in the
floorboard
just. happen on their
sort on their and
floating our bodies our open
now we ask in
freckle and
knot
things things
our bodies
the windows now. feel
and walls of scratch
behind the desk it on
eyes
the
from outside. a slowmoving
sound. we notice how
everything is so pink
remember why, but
don't.
for a while?” and, for once,
it does.
already happened.
they are well into
happening. we wonder
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
through before how's and where
when whenever the
as we notice a little
cottonfluff
sticks to our ink, and we ask
from.
thrown every instant, fields
of
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
little bug just flying around,
landing, and flying
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
it's
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to be just the way
they are and want to be,
always taking
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once
were a
the
other face; we can't figure
out
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
behind each
seem to go
positive, anywhere that doesn't
hurt anybody
had happened
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going
forth but never quite the same
way, always surprising
somehow and adding to the
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the feeling that we are
nowhere and
are getting nowhere.
marbles in a glass bowl,
particular seeming
the
melodies, their
tinkling or rubbing cardboard.
the dark bottle
right back, eyes glimmering
so
sunlight or fluorescent
batteries.
water. how's this different?
were important or something
or something or
or
thismomentingly
casting
expected
reflects in
walls and the
surface, papers
months before piled over each
other, some
so
and
paintings and
laser
we accidentally
imagine ourselves
a head this strangely
shaped box or
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 these
strange wooden boxes attached
to
eyes which still say
eyes without laughinglines
which
to smile about
behind our ears, the
ground, the sound of an overhead
lamp switching on
and everything in
particular,
everything
nothing, to feel everything
to feel nothing, or at
least something
getting tighter and
how
beautiful it is and how funny it is
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is okay
sometimes and being naked is okay
too, that sometimes
lead to other things, and
sometimes they don't, and
sometimes things
they keep just happening and
they don't stop. they don't
stop and it seems like they
never will,
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
do, blaming other people
for things nobody had
control over in the first place
and jumping to conclusions
about other people and their
intentions and
what they are afraid of.
forget that they are us, that
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing
them either. we
that their boxy head is
crying
not to notice. we remember
that we are all the same
person born into different
bodies, and that
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing.
laughing!
smile when
coming back right on cue
of these colors whose
names we can't remember
and lines and so many
we remember that the
of incense is still
glowing and somehow becoming
smoke
and
breathe. we forget to ask
questions.
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.
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
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 time with the
windows open: and in comes the
cooler air.
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.