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The Beautiful Chaos of the Notes App

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The Beautiful Chaos of the Notes App

We recently asked you, the readers of this newsletter, to bare your souls. In other words: We asked you to share the contents of your Notes apps with us, and the world.

You did not disappoint.

From a reader named Michelle: “There is a snail that can rip its own head from its body and regenerate a new one, mouth and all. It’s thought they do that to rid themselves of parasites. This is amazing!”

Thank you, Michelle, for this information that I hope none of us ever need to use. [Ed: that sounds like the sacoglossan sea slug.]

The rest of the notes were similarly chaotic: A list of fictional cocktails from a reader named Penny, the specifics of a puppy’s bowel movements from Bruce and — my personal favorite — a selection of songs Melissa is compiling to be played at her funeral. (“Everybody Eats When They Come to My House” is the closer.)

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As we told you last month, the latest TikTok trend is for users to share their Notes app screenshots, usually alongside text that says something like “never go through a girl’s Notes app.” The subtext being that we are stranger, less organized, less shielded versions of ourselves in Notes than we are on, say, Twitter or Instagram. We’re literally writing notes to self.

Notes has been around since the release of the original iPhone in 2007 (and before then, I hear that there was something called a “notebook”?) Way more sophisticated digital note-taking tools like Evernote and Notion have evolved since then, and some have gained obsessive followings among the very online Type-A crowd.

But if your responses are any indication, what winds up in the Notes app is a million times more haphazard than the color-coded workout schedules and bullet journals that dominate those other apps. Notes is mostly an unstructured brain dump; a destination for the random thoughts we offload while we’re in the middle of something else.

A reader named Hillary shared a list of nonsense words overheard at a conference, including “forethoughtful,” “planfully” and “applicationize.” In his Notes app, Mark wrote a sentence to illustrate the meaning of the word “fugacious” (adj. tending to disappear): “I had a fugacious look at that bird before it dove into thick brush, never to be seen again by me.”

Even the most mundane stuff in Notes can be a kind of time capsule. One of the most touching notes we got was from Janet, who sent her play-by-play for Thanksgiving in 2020. She had tomato bisque and a salad with a pepper jelly vinaigrette (yum!) before 5:30 cocktails and a family Zoom. The big turkey dinner, which was just for two, still took days of preparation: She made the pie crusts Tuesday, the bisque Wednesday and the stuffing Thursday.

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Barbara found a note from six years ago with the title “REMEMBER.” The listed items were “Whole order 40, Bus 6402” and “Be happy be nice be grateful.” She said she did not have any idea why she wrote the first two. But the last one, at least, is not such a bad thing for all of us to try to remember.

Thanks to everyone who wrote in — seriously, I feel like I know you way, way better now.


Here’s what else is happening online this week.


This is a debate we’re almost certainly going to keep having as the generation of children raised entirely in the era of Instagram come of age.

I really enjoyed this interview with an anonymous internet child star laying bare what growing up online really meant, from Teen Vogue earlier this spring. (Spoiler: They did not enjoy having their existence mined for content.) More recently, this piece from The Atlantic got me thinking about everyday, normal people: The children whose first steps and tantrums and jam-covered faces weren’t posted as content meant to make money, but were posted as content nonetheless.

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I don’t have kids, and my ’90s childhood — while exceedingly well documented — was never digitized for easy sharing. Which is all to say, I’m not going to sit here and pretend I have the answer. But I am curious if you do? Is there an ethical way to share your kid’s life online? How are you navigating this particular digital minefield? Send us an email — responses may be featured in a future newsletter.


Read past editions of the newsletter here.

If you’re enjoying what you’re reading, please consider recommending it to others. They can sign up here. Browse all of our subscriber-only newsletters here.

Have feedback? Send me a note at iho@nytimes.com.

You can also follow me on Twitter (@4evrmalone).

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Callie Holtermann contributed reporting to this newsletter.

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The Academy is replacing Hattie McDaniel’s Oscar that has been missing for 50 years

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The Academy is replacing Hattie McDaniel’s Oscar that has been missing for 50 years

Actress Hattie McDaniel, left, appears with actress Fay Bainter, right, the night McDaniel won best supporting actress for her role in the 1939 film “Gone With the Wind” in Los Angeles on Feb. 29, 1940. The Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences has created a replacement of McDaniel’s Academy Award plaque that it is gifting to Howard University.

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Actress Hattie McDaniel, left, appears with actress Fay Bainter, right, the night McDaniel won best supporting actress for her role in the 1939 film “Gone With the Wind” in Los Angeles on Feb. 29, 1940. The Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences has created a replacement of McDaniel’s Academy Award plaque that it is gifting to Howard University.

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The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences is sending Howard University a replacement Oscar for the groundbreaking actress Hattie McDaniel, whose original award has been missing for at least 50 years.

McDaniel was the first Black person to be nominated for and win an Oscar for her supporting role as Mammy in the 1939 film Gone With the Wind.

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She went on to act in more than 300 movies, and shortly before her death from breast cancer in 1952, she asked that the Oscar be moved from her home to Howard University in Washington.

But the plaque, which preceded the gold statuettes and was given to supporting winners from 1936 to 1942, suddenly disappeared from the school’s fine arts building.

“Hattie McDaniel was a groundbreaking artist who changed the course of cinema and impacted generations of performers who followed her,” Academy Museum Director Jacqueline Stewart and Academy CEO Bill Kramer said in a Tuesday statement. “We are thrilled to present a replacement of Hattie McDaniel’s Academy Award to Howard University.”

Thomas Battle, the former director of the Moorland-Spingarn Research Center at Howard, told NPR in 2009 that he believes the award went missing in the late 1960s or early 1970s, possibly during a period of student unrest.

“But unfortunately all of the principals who would have been involved at the university at that time — administrators and others — are no longer with us, and we have not been able to get the kind of direct information that we would like to be able to pursue this investigation further.”

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Denise Randle, who tracked the university’s inventory of artifacts beginning in 1972, first said she thought it was thrown away. Then, she thought it must have been misplaced. Actress Karla Burns, who portrayed McDaniel in the one-woman show Hi-Hat, thought the plaque was stolen.

Nevertheless, the new, gifted plaque will be housed in Howard’s Chadwick A. Boseman College of Fine Arts and be accompanied by a ceremony on Oct. 1, titled “Hattie’s Come Home,” honoring McDaniel’s life and career.

“When I was a student in the College of Fine Arts at Howard University, in what was then called the Department of Drama, I would often sit and gaze in wonder at the Academy Award that had been presented to Ms. Hattie McDaniel,” said Phylicia Rashad, the dean of the fine arts school and a Tony Award-winning actress. “I am overjoyed that this Academy Award is returning to what is now the Chadwick A. Boseman College of Fine Arts at Howard University.”

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Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, Messi Ticket Resellers Must Report Earnings To IRS

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Did AI write this film? ‘The Creator’ offers a muddled plea for human-robot harmony

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Did AI write this film? ‘The Creator’ offers a muddled plea for human-robot harmony

Madeleine Yuna Voyles plays Alphie, a pensive young robot child in The Creator.

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Madeleine Yuna Voyles plays Alphie, a pensive young robot child in The Creator.

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The use of AI in Hollywood has been one of the most contentious issues in the writers and actors strikes, and the industry’s anxiety about the subject isn’t going away anytime soon. Some of that anxiety has already started to register on-screen. A mysterious robotic entity was the big villain in the most recent Mission: Impossible film, and AI is also central to the ambitious but muddled new science-fiction drama The Creator.

Set decades into the future, the movie begins with a prologue charting the rise of artificial intelligence. Here it’s represented as a race of humanoid robots that in time become powerful enough to detonate a nuclear weapon and wipe out the entire city of Los Angeles.

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As a longtime LA resident who’s seen his city destroyed in countless films before this one, I couldn’t help but watch this latest cataclysm with a chuckle and a shrug. It’s just part of the setup in a story that patches together numerous ideas from earlier, better movies. After the destruction of LA, we learn, the U.S. declared war on AI and hunted the robots to near-extinction; the few that still remain are hiding out in what is now known as New Asia.

The director Gareth Edwards, who wrote the script with Chris Weitz, has cited Blade Runner and Apocalypse Now as major influences. And indeed, there’s something queasy and heavy-handed about the way Edwards evokes the Vietnam War with images of American soldiers terrorizing the poor Asian villagers whom they suspect of sheltering robots.

John David Washington plays Joshua Taylor, a world-weary ex-special-forces operative.

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John David Washington plays Joshua Taylor, a world-weary ex-special-forces operative.

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The protagonist is a world-weary ex-special-forces operative named Joshua Taylor, played by John David Washington. He’s reluctantly joined the mission to help destroy an AI superweapon said to be capable of wiping out humanity for good. Amid the battle that ensues, Joshua manages to track down the weapon, which — in a twist that echoes earlier sci-fi classics like Akira and A.I. — turns out to be a pensive young robot child, played by the excellent newcomer Madeleine Yuna Voyles.

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Joshua’s superior, played by Allison Janney, tells him to kill the robot child, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes rogue and on the run with the child, whom he calls Alpha, or Alphie. Washington doesn’t have much range or screen presence, but he and Voyles do generate enough chemistry to make you forget you’re watching yet another man tag-teaming with a young girl — a trope familiar from movies as different as Paper Moon and Léon: The Professional.

Joshua’s betrayal is partly motivated by his grief over his long-lost love, a human woman named Maya who allied herself with the robots; she’s played by an underused Gemma Chan. One of the more bothersome aspects of The Creator is the way it reflexively equates Asians with advanced technology; it’s the latest troubling example of “techno-orientalism,” a cultural concept that has spurred a million Blade Runner term papers.

In recycling so many spare parts, Edwards, best known for directing the Star Wars prequel Rogue One, is clearly trying to tap into our memories of great Hollywood spectacles past. To his credit, he wants to give us the kind of philosophically weighty, visually immersive science-fiction blockbuster that the studios rarely attempt anymore. The most impressive aspect of The Creator is its world building; much of the movie was shot on location in different Asian countries, and its mix of real places and futuristic design elements feels more plausible and grounded than it would have if it had been rendered exclusively in CGI.

But even the most strikingly beautiful images — like the one of high-tech laser beams shimmering over a beach at sunset — are tethered to a story and characters that never take on a life of their own. Not even the great Ken Watanabe can breathe much life into his role as a stern robo-warrior who does his part to help Joshua and Alphie on their journey.

In the end, Edwards mounts a sincere but soggy plea for human-robot harmony, arguing that AI isn’t quite the malicious threat it might seem. That’s a sweet enough sentiment, though it’s also one of many reasons I left The Creator asking myself: Did an AI write this?

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