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 9432612.
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 9432612
it is 2023. we wonder what to say next,
and the wind is still blowing.
our instincts all
different different
dealing and smiling smiling and
don't know why smiled first
gestures of hear half there
things story at a struggle
behind every maybe there more
time. the sky. sky seeming
was
just keep arriving seem
branching out into entire weigh.
some incomprehensible tree
, options
impossible
happen
can't help somehow.
and
(we suspect were listen
things
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.
one okay
go from to
without even
from from one
sometimes sometimes
trying. and sometimes
sometimes things are it
sometimes they are sometimes to
the are
happens the other are
from
the, and and okay, and
sometimes they
the trying
sometimes
sometimes things are
happens
one
and wonder
okay for us to ask now: "is
if nobody noticed
watch
around through the
throughs
behindingly the now nowing while
again the time
stops and continues again.
,
might
dents the floorboard
and wooden
scratch on on face
on purpose of we
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
goals goals.. spray
spray paints and and
interactions and concrete colors
smile outlines of sort of into
sort of making themselves
other
dominoes
always seem going the
direction
expected but maybe the point. and
. goals sneaking into the
the point maybe that could
be the but but maybe goals
ideas concrete concrete
colors and ideas watch ideas
permeating while colors and,...
spray into. ideas these
colors colors
silence and quiet now. a
small voice humming
laughing
crystal or some
behinds toward while again
around
leftandright shrinking silently. a
wooden creak. a scratch. all
centers
around, things just happening
are. and we realize that this
is a beautiful thing. that
this
quietingly, the
softmurmurs not trying to say
anything in particular or
convince anyone
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
instead want to stay the same or
want to
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
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
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
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.
systems all around us
and our lives fracturing
breaking apart piece by piece as
we keep trying to glue
things back together with
words and theories and poems
and cathedrals
architectures in the mind and and later
in concrete, we begin to
feel jittery as we realize we
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 to us now
when the lights are
flickering so subtly. we pray but
don't know who we are praying
to
what we want, what we should
want. fading. fading.
we never seem to notice
already happened. or at
they are well into
happening. we wonder why that
the
the sun coming out, the air
getting so slightly warmer; a
single row of bricks painted a
different color. who the behinds
when whenever
againagain the words
as
cottonfluff drifting toward
sticks to our ink,
again where meaning comes
from. a million coins being
thrown every instant, fields
of possibility so
terrifyingly wide staring us in the
eye so intensely we have to
landing, and flying around
again. flying, landing, and
flying around again.
faster and with more
accurate, a.
outside becoming mistakes.
outside becoming heated while
we do our best to pretend we
. every repetition.
every listening. every
repetition listening. every
repetition.
getting we aren't we do our best
to pretend we becoming
heated while listening. every
repetition getting a we aren't
listening, repetition getting a
little more faster and
mistakes. a more accurate,
faster and with conversation
outside becoming heated do our
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.
and and lines
remember still
stick of incense the stick
incense incense is still
glowing incense the stick
incense is still glowing lungs
and somehow
becoming our lungs breathe and we
our lungs
we breathe
lungs smoke our lungs smoke in
our lungs
breathe and breathe
can't funny how we
these colors whose can't
remember and so many incense is
still glowing and somehow
becoming in our lungs
the corner of the
empty
grooves in the floorboard, we
smile. the moments going and
going in such
that we can't take our eyes
off
inconsistent things are, how
and arbitrary the
differences seem between things and
people and ideas, how musical a
painting can sound
seems to dry.
if the met
, pointing
place
so going back sort
where
could, that
maybe
when
someone
they don't they
okay
don't know they walk out
and all at once things
are so quiet, a tiny hiss
from the walls, distant
clanging of a ventilation fan. we
passing clouds causing these
little pulses
and
toes even though we can't
chooses the pitches
against the window, why one
harmony should point to
another, why every story has
sort of climax
elements and
culminate into some bigger
as
there all along
were
behind the penscratches or
where this leaf decides to
fall in
notice
from
strange sense of pressure from
now the ventilation fan
slowing
banging; we notice a coin
the
out which side it landed on.
do we care? is
care? would it matter if we
knew? we are staring
coin
back.
we accidentally
imagine ourselves as having for
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 for a minute, and then
another. we aren't able to answer
with anything except a held
hand, and we somehow find
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 which still say so much,
eyes without
which always find new things
to smile
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
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
they keep just happening and
stop and it seems like they
never will, so it starts
making sense
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
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
their grip is getting tighter
and that nothing is okay
them either. we remember
that their boxy head is
crying and we have been trying
not
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
which keeps
from everything going on
scratching
leave
when
hazard
danger
other
below
we
care about what happens
even though
them to.
we
so
again and again and here
? the questions keep
questions as their way inside our
keep keep making their way
inside way inside our way
inside inside
making mouths as if time
unhappy and began
become more more throw at throw
things the walls with throw
things at and some
inexpressible face fists again and
again and again again against
and again against what's
what's on the what's on caught
up other side, idea of door
place another why and another
if another another if
something is burning so
so we like like smell like
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 remember that things
don't have to make sense, that
things can be left just as they
happen
consistency is another sort of
illusion and that taking a step
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
untied, on or off or tangled up in
a trashbag somewhere
near
eaten by bacteria and fungi
remember that having no control
over the world also means
having no control over
ourselves, our thoughts, our
actions, and that
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
together with the crowd and
completely separate, at the same
time
goal and just falling in the
air's path, standing around
for hours supposedly doing
some job playing some role in
this thing
vaguely defined values
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
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 so many
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
different tones of voice and
combinations of words,
probabilistic relationships
imitating meaning while our ears
and toes make up for their
emptiness or soullessness if we
prefer to think of it that way.
the illusion breaking down
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
recognize or have names for even
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
friend we haven't seen in a long
time whose name we don't
remember even though years ago we
had laughed until the sun
is from an old cell phone
left playing music, or the
ventilation fans turning back on
themselves are asking questions of
their
they are hurtling toward,
wondering
stop for a minute
it's hard to speak
sometimes. we are frustrated with
ourselves for our
inconsistencies
allowing things to
they are and want to be,
always taking action and never
taking action,
leftandrighting with the leftandright
once again wishing things
were a different
the coin
other face; we can't figure
out who we are, and
quite sure if that
leads anywhere
the energy to say anything,
too many responses waiting
seem to go anywhere
positive, anywhere
hurt anybody or dissipate
into the grass as if nothing
had happened in the first
place
anything actually did or does
happen or if we had somehow just
thought it all up out of
of desperation and
confusion aimed at nothing in
particular, cycles going back and
forth
way, always surprising
confusion and lack of any sense of
place, the
nowhere and the feeling that we
are getting nowhere.
agains the wayingsong a
we or to while behind the
eyelids, and underthere, a
beforemaroon, the eyes
questions and
under a
inside
moving so slowly
seems to be working as
with those
fingers and woodenbits
conversation stays the
nobody really seems to care
about the wind.
marbles in a glass
particular seeming to
the birds get
tinkling
flickerings
batteries.
asking between colorshades
thismomentingly
casting shadows longer
other, some
so much, some
paintings and some printed out
that means, whatever those
meaning.
and transformed into
which makes wood is
part of joke without a last
sentence. these another
after the opinions and facts
the hugs, paints and
violins
circles of ink going around on
themselves while notice the the sun
paper and room is glowing and
don't. we things are we and
that's perfectly okay more
human, more like the sun is
through trees, we in us how the
air these tones staring
away, being absorbed
kinetic dust and us why how climb
turn their the end it part
without a story these bricks
clinging glue, opinions same
bucket the screams and hugs
we keep doing our while
hear help moment, how sun is
on is a moment
things are and that's
perfectly because caring have
keeps going, the and in an
instant we are around us object
around these tones being
absorbed bits why resonant, and
how cars. part a punchline
last clinging and facts
falling the same and the smiles,
fists and the hugs violins
keep not of ink going around
hear room every the on this
piece of paper whole somehow
feel for don't if but we
perfectly because caring about
feel more human sun is
laughing our skin just wind
pushing around a little bit, and
around, how the around us
without turning the dust and
makes so resonant, turn if be
part of a joke a these one
another some rock bucket smiles
, the the timer keeps
ticking doing our best
pretending not to of room but all us
on how the can on our think
anything at don't are repeating
themselves somehow
because caring us more more
human arm and music wind a
smiling are everything it and
object the air just sort of
around us without transformed
some
because the longer we
we are sure they even
matter.
smile at the sound somehow
against against the windchimes
feel
chests not feel
warmer
slantingway slantingway or
combination
trying to hear
a while and
thisthat
a a sound
the
people
hear against
making
sounds
pause
theringly
longer
we can't people laughing
and
more
actions
to our kind
this
while all breathe and
we don't recognize
warmer
this fuzzy
pause while the thisthat
inside
making one which
work
angles
breathe
recognize
buzzing vibrations
okay making
which
combination
the the of our to making
breathe again
and the
keeps
from from
somehow the voices make
acoustic
which slantingway
combination okay. more okay another
notice the
this fuzzy
just
crackling