The so-called desktop first appeared on the home computer in 1981 with the release of the Xerox 8010 Star Information System. This device pioneered the graphical user interface, or GUI, a convenient series of visual metaphors that allow us to more easily interact with our machines. The simplest computer interface is the command line, an empty box in which users write instructions in code directly to the machine; Xerox Star replaces this forbidding vacuum with a friendly illustration of a desk surface textured with patterned pixels, dotted with icons of folders, spreadsheets, and document trays. A 1982 paper on the device described the then-new system: “Users are encouraged to think of objects on the desktop in physical terms. You can move icons around to arrange the desktop as you wish. (Desktop clutter is certainly possible, as in real life.)” JPG, ZIP, M4A. Just like a regular desk drawer, the desk is now something we tend to fill and then forget about.
Over the last decade of computer development, desktop computing has been in retreat. Digital filing systems have gone the way of the IRL inbox. Instead, we use the search bar to bring up any file we might want to search for, or click on apps that provide offline, streamlined options for consuming or creating content. Our phone home screens are even less customizable and less distinctive than desktop computers; We rarely think about the individual files that exist on our phones. Apple recently launched a redesign of the iPhone operating system interface called Liquid Glass, which makes icons translucent, further homogenizing their appearance. Even such icons may soon become a thing of the past. The promise of artificial intelligence is that the desktop will disappear completely and users will only interact with a chatbot or voice that will carry out their instructions in simple language, turning the entire computer into an anthropomorphized character. No clutter, just AI efficiency.
Amid the accelerating automation of our computers—and the increasing number of assistants, companions, and agents dedicated to completing tasks for us—I've been thinking more and more about the desktop hidden in the back of the laptop I use every day. Mine is littered with screenshots, Word documents, and eBooks. However, what I got most from TextEdit files was a simple Mac app that lets you simply enter data into a blank window. Apple computers have come with text editing software since the original Mac was released in 1984; the current version of the program was launched in the mid-nineties and has remained relatively unchanged. Over the past few years, I've become more reliant on TextEdit as every other app has become increasingly complex, adding cloud uploading, collaborative editing, and now TextEdit's generative AI isn't connected to the internet like Google Docs. It is not part of a larger desktop software package such as Microsoft Word. You can write in TextEdit and format your text using minimal fonts and styles. These files are stored in RTF (short for Rich Text) format, which is one step better than the simplest TXT file. TextEdit now functions as my to-do list app, my email drafts window, my personal calendar, and my stash of notes to myself that act as digital sticky notes.
I trust TextEdit. It doesn't change its interface design without warning, like Spotify does; it doesn't offer new features or require you to update the app every two weeks like Google Chrome does. I've tried other software to keep track of my random thoughts and ideas – personal note-taking app Evernote; Trello task management board; Notion digital collaboration workspace that can store and share company information. Each encourages you to adapt to a specific organizational philosophy, with its own formats and document storage systems. But nothing worked for me better than the brutal simplicity of TextEdit, which doesn't try to help you with your thinking process at all. Using the application is as close as possible to writing by hand on the screen. Sure, I could make lists on plain paper, but I also found that my brain was so hopelessly distorted by the keyboard that I could only really write down my thoughts by typing. (Apparently my internal monologue is in Arial, fourteen point font.)
