The nearer edge of the subjective cuts across and includes part of our present time, viz. the moment of inception, but most of our present belongs in the Hopi scheme to the objective realm and so is indistinguishable from our past. There is also a verb form, the INCEPTIVE which refers to this EDGE of emergent manifestation in the reverse way-as belonging to the objective, at the edge at which objectivity is obtained; this is used to indicate beginning/starting, and in most cases there is no difference apparent in the translation from the similar use of the expective. But, at certain crucial points, significant and fundamental differences appear. The inceptive, referring to the objective and the result side, and not like the expective to the subjective and causal side, implies the ending of the work of causation in the same breath that it states the beginning of manifestation.
- BENJAMIN LEE WHORF AN AMERICAN INDIAN MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE

Since 1977, UT Austin has hosted The Maya Meetings, a four day annual workshop of epigraphic research, where teams and individual students and professors descend upon the Mesoamerican Center and pour over their year of research and offer papers and discussions of what decipherment has occurred. Of course the workshop has overlapped with the SXSW festival, allowing the participants to study the Maya by day and absorb the cutting edge of music film and recently interactive by night. This year, however, the meetings have been moved to Casa Herrera in Antigua, Guatemala, a sister facility of the Mesoamerican Center and will then alternate between there and Austin to ensure the linguistic distances between glyph and word are drawn closer together.

See you in Antigua!

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Son of Jean Painleve

Resolutely simplistic, seemingly complex, Hurt Locker bears the mark of all mediocre films, most of its tensions disappear on second viewing, some of them dissolve even during their first. Its logic messy and unconvincing, Bigelow has many choices but seems to milk any distortion she can while sacrificing intelligent sequencing. Early on a butcher detonates an IED after the targeted technician has come closest to the killzone, he's already on his way out when it detonates, the purpose here is to array the tensions in layers yet it destroys the pure logic of the bomb's purpose. Bigelow couches everything, it's her first pop-out, the butcher holds his cellphone-bomb-remote artificially and in plain sight, needlessly calling attention from the support troops. Meetings between unknowns are milked for every second of tension possible, 'you guys are wired tight' is the understatement of the film, James' taxi encounter seems to go on for years, the initial seconds of the encounter with mercenary Brits are elongated like a blind date intro.  'Improvs' like the use of a smoke flare to reduce visibility on a tight street are met with hysteria from Sanborn, the film seems to create drama out of operatic fear. You'd wonder if the bomb unit had any sense of cool. The support team loses its lunch at every possible turn, grating audience nerves needlessly, and surely Iraq vets in the audience leave the film rolling eyes: who are these whiners?  Without the perceptive distortions we share with Renner's central character, all cheap gotchas that usually are tools of the horror film, the film is merely a stylized, largely static war drama with a component fate: the tension of defusing catastrophic bombs. Interspersed between the wooden Green Zone/base therapy-'letting steam-off' scenery is the paranoia of cultural confusion and divided languages. The technical nightmares of urban warfare in a city only temporarily conquered are never fully realized though: the plot has to depart the city to duel with ultra-long lenses where its one Iraq-conflict-signature-jarhead-moment, the sniper exchange and outcome, falls this side of flat. She can't decide if the film is a document of what seems real or is it all too surreal?  For all the supposed technical charms of Bigelow's macho bravo eye, it still feels more transvestite than transcendant. Moments like the boy's reappearance and the confused home invasion have contrivances that weigh sentimental rather than paint the film with radical shifts in wartime paradox. Generals, medics, buddies, even cameos like Fiennes and Pearce are modulated into a gruff anyspeak.  Its mediocrity rises full pitch as the film ends with his child's jack-in-the-box routine, a metaphor so leaden, Bigelow may as well be saying: do you get it? The way she displays data is glaring, his box of denatured devices, what is being left in the transitions, nothing. Fear? Do we really obtain a sense of the streets?  Culture is still awaiting this war's watershed flick: the Deer Hunter-Apocalypse Now-Full Metal Jacket lens. Where plot is only a decoy to obtain the visual epic.