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 4281906.
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 4281906
it is 2023. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
resonant, how
squirrels and how cars turn their
wheels end will all turn out
joke without a last sentence
rock glue, one and
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.
because the longer we
we
matter.
small
crystal or some melting snow.
behinds toward while again
around where's or why's while
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak.
centers
and just being the way they
are. and we realize that this
this is a beautiful thing.
sometimes things
things and and sometimes we one
the
and not
sometimes
things
other without even trying.
even
trying. and sometimes without
are not okay, sometimes it
happens
didn't even hear were
because were
there isn't
if
seeming like
time seeming just emails
stories, possibilities
impossible up just going with..
tree options up first going
the good as
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
a head this strangely
a triangular roof or
something similar and we are
sitting in the front passenger
we care a lot about asks,
who are you?
think for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
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 bodies, heads without
eyes without laughinglines
which always find new things
to smile about
behind our ears, the way this
piece of paper
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
how
that poetry and music might
be the same thing after
all, that hiding is
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
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
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
and that nothing is okay for
them either.
that their boxy head is
crying and
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.
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
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
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
and cathedrals
in concrete, we
feel jittery as we realize we
haven't stood up in hours, this
chair and its arms a little
narrow, pressing against the
sides of our
and singulars not having so
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
hear all these
feel
another
trying hear inside the
second hand ticking by
angles crackling
from seasonal
help
this sort
and we hear all these
vibrations buzzing buzzing
inside
more we lean
but
of outside sun outside
angles
breathe
call call
acoustic
warmer but more
theringly
sound
recognize help but
sound
quiet
but of sound
empty
grooves in the floorboard, we
going in such a beautiful way
that we can't take
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 sound
seems to dry.
we
little more accurate little
faster
on heated outside going on
outside becoming heated on
we becoming heated on the
mistakes conversation mistakes
. the faster and mistakes
, little more a accurate,
more getting every best to a
little, faster a little
accurate, a and little more we
aren't listening do our best do
our while outside
conversation going and more accurate
, with fewer
it's
sometimes. we are frustrated
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things
they are
always taking action and
taking
leftandrighting with the
once again
were
the coin had landed on the
other face; we can't
out who
quite sure if that question
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too
behind
seem to
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place and we begin to wonder if
anything actually did or does
happen or if
thought it all up out of some kind
of
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
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
how did we get here? the
questions
way inside our mouths as if
we never could learn from
answer and
more unhappy and began to
throw things at the walls with
some inexpressible anger
screaming and shouting with
face and bulging
fists again
what's on the
caught up
door being there in
place
if
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
harder on
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
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
size was right at the store.
color combinations making us
feel sick and
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 bits of data?
see the picture from a
pixel, hard to find the poem
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
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
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
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.
which whyhow
thumpingly against the doors, the
momentnow changing and growing,
shapes never leading to ones we
expect in situations where
things might make sense of some
kind. we
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just as they
happen
consistency is another sort of
illusion and
away could even mean
allowing things which don't make
sense to happen
difference between our own actions
and the temperature
outside today, not so much
difference between our minds and
our shoelaces
untied, on or off or tangled up in
a trashbag somewhere
near spoiled food being
remember that having no control
over the world also means
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing. this is a
beautiful thing and that's
completely okay if we let it be, if we
watch the pollen drift to the
ground, following a single
green speck in its strange
path
together with the crowd
completely separate, at the same
time going somewhere with a
goal and just falling in
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this thing we call society,
vaguely defined values being
pushed on everyone even when we
don't quite understand what
anyone is saying or why they are
saying it or and we ourselves
don't quite understand what
we ourselves are saying or
why we are saying it
still saying something
outside, the sun's belly still
rising and falling with every
breath as it thinks about
wooden cabinets and why they
are shaped the way they are
when there are
possibilities, so many ways to write a
poem or explain a thought, so
many ways to build a chord and
roll up our sleeves when it
seems everyday that there is a
new color in the sky, a new
piece of
different tones of voice and
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the
again, a smallvoiced reminder
that we are a pale blue dot, a
grain of sand out of place in a
library where every book is in a
different language and there are
pictures of things we don't
recognize or have names for
when we thought we had a good
grip on shapes and colors; we
are not sure if the
shuffling feet a few shelves down
is a librarian or an old
friend we haven't seen in a long
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
came back
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on
remember that the galaxies
themselves are asking questions
their own, wondering where
they are hurtling toward,
wondering when it will
stop for a minute
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not
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
need to change but maybe
instead want to stay the same or
want to change, or rather:
just happens. it 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 mind at that moment,
letting it out and
the sound waves not
disappearing
thousand surfaces and every
blade of grass, split and
muffled and distorted and
echoed until they sound like
dead trees, the sun pushing
the
through the screen door, gnats
in the air just sort of
moving around.
these colors with
permeating a while a smile. it all
just happens and making
themselves
shapes into of squares and sort
sort of making themselves up
the geometries and
buttons the geometries
geometries which relationships
dominoes which always seem to
fall way. not going the way be
goals sneaking. spray. ideas
and and colors and concrete
,. spray colors and ideas
permeating while we happens
happens and trangles into other
behind sort of making
relationships pushing buttons and
wrong direction expected or
maybe point. could be, but
maybe that sneaking into the
thoughts again. ideas and
interactions and ideas permeating
with a of squares and
trangles into other things of of
geometries and and relationships
in the wrong wrong
direction the way could again
again.. ideas ideas and these
colors concrete we watch with a
of, trangles themselves
relationships in in the wrong
direction the wrong wrong
direction. not going the to fall
which always in. not not in the
wrong direction. fall in. not
going the way intended, could
be the point into the
thoughts again. ideas and
interactions. spray paints all
permeating while we watch with of of
squares happens
other things, shapes sort
other sort geometries and
relationships pushing pushing
pushing buttons seem seem to
dominoes and fall in the not going
going the way we expected or
intended direction. not we
expected or point into the and
concrete,, with ideas
permeating with it all just smile.
and. and things making
themselves up behind each and
dominoes which not but maybe the
the point. and
interactions. concrete. spray
paints and concrete, all these
colors while we and and ideas it
all just happens things,
trangles up behind
relationships fall relationships
geometries and relationships
other
dominoes to the but sneaking into
the thoughts again. ideas
the ideas all these colors
we happens
we or to while behind
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes again with
questions and
under a color when we are stuck
moving so slowly
seems to
with those
suggest a counterpoint. and the
conversation stays the same and
nobody really seems to care
about
someone
and feel
our it it might
it might be the windows
this stinging sensation
notice ask ourselves where
they what and face of someone
happened, if someone things just
close our
might
breathe
hands
ourselves ourselves where
panels panels
wires
did
in the
books
and we stop and what might
without any particular sense
intention to
with, with a and
that things just we
absurd then laugh at how absurd
it is that we
think about week, what of the
happening
sound like if
tomorrow or
and all at once things
are so
clanging
passing clouds causing these
little pulses in the sunglow
and somehow we
toes even though we can't
chooses the pitches it sings
against the window,
harmony
sort of climax where
culminate into
as
there all
were some kind
behind the penscratches or
where this
notice a pain
from bad posture and some
strange sense of pressure from
the bottom of our right foot
now the ventilation
banging; we notice a coin lying
out which
do
care? would it matter
coin and
back.
we wait for a few minutes
and
okay for
this beautiful?" we wonder
if
watch
around through the leaves. we
sunlight and
throughs
behindingly
stops and continues
circles of ink
the changes until they've
already happened. or at least
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that is:
the clouds evaporating and
the sun coming out, the air
getting
through before
when whenever the
againagain the words
as we notice a little
cottonfluff drifting toward
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly
eye so intensely we have to
look
little bug just flying
landing, and
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
grow way
comes they so they see say
okay
that, that
ourselves
we
notice
notice
when
so
the might note
of
relevancy
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
make us happy, what would
which keeps distracting
from everything going
scratching pens
a quote out
leave
when we go
though we
hazard
danger and the
other people
we know
them
should
we care. and everything is
so quiet.
laughing! isn't it
funny how we can't help but
smile when the sun starts
coming back right on cue
of these colors
names we can't remember
and lines and so many lines.
we remember that the
of
glowing and somehow
smoke in our lungs
and we breathe and
breathe.
questions.
not going
melodies,
tinkling or rubbing
the dark bottle
so
sunlight
batteries. the
water. how's this different?
asking
were important
or anothersong
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer than
expected somehow while the light
reflects in its own
surface, papers scattered from
months before piled over
other,
so much,
and blindly
that