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celluloiddreamzzz · 2 years

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Actor George Takei’s college graduation photo. He graduated in 1964, having earned Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts degrees in theater from The University of California, Los Angeles.

Takei began his college career studying architecture at the University of California at Berkeley before changing his major and transferring to UCLA. In his memoir, To The Stars, Takei writes of this change of direction:

One relaxation Daddy enjoyed was to water the back lawn in the nocturnal calm of late evening. He would sit on the steps of the back porch gazing up at the night sky as he held the hose spraying a soft mist over the lawn. One evening, I spied him from the kitchen window sitting there alone. I watched this solitary figure for a long time. The man who had worked so hard at so many jobs for his children, this father who gave so much to us and who wanted so much from us. As I watched him gazing up at the stars, I felt I knew what he must have been dreaming about. And I ached over what I had to tell him. I slipped out of the house and sat beside him. The spring night air was soft and balmy.

“Daddy, I’ve been giving my future a lot of thought,” I began tentatively, “and I’d like to share it with you.” I told him of my love of architecture but also of my anguish over my divided feelings. I told him that I didn’t want to live my life always harboring a regret. I told him that, ultimately, I had to live my own life, and although I was deeply grateful for all that he and Mama had done for me, I had to be true to myself. Then I said in one breath something that I had never before said aloud.

“Daddy, I want to go to New York and study acting at the Actors Studio.” Only the soft hiss of the nozzle as it sprayed the mist could be heard. “It’s where Marlon Brando and James Dean studied,” I explained earnestly. My father only stared out, still and silent. “Daddy, I want to be an actor.”

My father gazed down at the lawn pensively and continued watering in silence. All I could hear was the soft sound of the mist. A quiet heartache tightened around me. I knew the pain I was causing him. Then Daddy spoke, and I was taken aback. He said thoughtfully, “I knew that we would eventually be having this discussion.” He had expected this! Such a revelation was the last thing I had anticipated. He told me in his measured words that he had sensed my distress and that he was troubled by it. He said that what he and Mama wanted was for their children to be happy. Then he said the words for which I had steeled myself.“You love acting, and you think becoming an actor will give you happiness. All you know, though, is the glamour you see on stage and on screen. But you don’t know the real difficulties of making a living as an actor. There’s no security. There’s no continuity. And as a Japanese, the kinds of roles available to you will be limited. The truth is, there’s no dignity in that kind of life. We want you to be happy. But we don’t think you’ll be happy with the kind of life an actor has to live.”

I said to Daddy that I knew there were no guarantees for an actor. But I said that what was what guaranteed for me as an architect, no matter how successful I might become, was a lifetime of needling regrets. With impassioned words I said to my father that I would be going into this with my eyes wide open, that I was mindful of all his concerns, but that I was strong and I was determined and that I would not disappoint him. I asked him to have the same faith in my decision to pursue acting as he had in me as a student of architecture. Daddy twisted the nozzle closed, and the fine hissing stopped. He turned and faced me directly.

“You’re determined, are you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then do it,” he said. “Do what you are so determined to do. Become the best that you can be. We Want you to be happy.”

I was stunned. But before I could respond, he continued, “But there is an alternative I want you to consider. The Actors Studio is a fine acting school. But when you finish there, they won’t give you an academic degree. UCLA, as you know, has a distinguished school of theater. Study theater and acting there, and when you finish, they will grant you a bachelor’s degree. It will make your future a bit less perilous. Your mother and I would like you to have that.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had been prepared to press my cause, to press it as vigorously as I could. But I hadn’t expected Daddy to turn the tables by accepting my cause before advocating his[...] He continued.

“You ought to know that New York is a tough place, a really merciless place, and a very expensive place. If you go to New York,” he said, “you had better be prepared to do it on your own. On the other hand, if you study acting at UCLA, which your mother and I would prefer you to do, we would be happy to cover your expenses.”

There it was. The deal. New York on my own at the Actors Studio, versus UCLA with subsidy. It was the classic offer you couldn’t refuse. I was pitted against a professional deal maker. Daddy knew I was a practical kid; he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the subsidy. As Daddy might have put it, “It’s a win-win deal.”

I went back to Berkeley and began preparing to wrap up my three terms as a student of architecture. I also took out the transfer papers for my shift to UCLA. And I readied myself to become an actor.

#george takei #ucla #college #early life

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shadowofwar-goober · 2 years

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Stains of the Soul Ch. 1: The Mundane of Daily Life

Originally posted on my main, but it fits better here. This is a fic exploring Zog the Eternal’s early life. Just something I’m feeling out atm, all with the help of the wonderful @space-arsonist! I hope you enjoy!

Life in Mordor is many things. It is difficult, it is merciless, it is violent and cruel. It isn’t for the weak willed or faint of heart, or those that are unable or unwilling to do what is necessary to survive. There is no refuge here, no rest for the wicked or innocent, alike. There is strife and struggle and suffering and dominating oppression at every corner of the land. All in this land are servants of the Dark Lord, whether they acknowledge it or not, whether they internalize it or not. All may not revere the Dark Lord, but all heed his beck and call in the end, no matter how weak or fleeting their connection to him may be. But some? Some do break the chains their master had used to tie their entire being to his will. Those rare few are able to shed the weight of the Dark Lord’s will and expectations, but not without a cost. And that toll is far more devastating than any could ever imagine, and it differs from individual to individual. What was the tax that he had paid to get to this point in his life, and how much did it change him in his entirety…?

Dark skies, choked with smogh and ash

Ground blackened wiht with by the fires of Dho Doh Do

“Psst! Zog! Ya over ‘ere?”

The young trickster growled and hissed in frustration as he angrily scratched away at the dirt he was picking at moments before. He throws his head in the direction of the voice, one he was quite familiar with. But no less annoyed with.

Pushkrimp poked his head around the large rock Zog was reclining against, clearly curious as to why his litter mate was hiding so far away from the others in the tribe. There was a bitter, sulfur stink that clung to him, most likely from him and few others roughhousing near a particularly loose patch of soured soil, no doubt. Zog didn’t bother to hide his disgust, and turned his head, huffing to himself. The other uruk rolled his eyes with a flick of his head.

“Boss is pissed at ya.”

When isn’t that glob pissed at something or another? Before Zog could show his disinterest, Pushkrimp quickly quipped,

“‘e wants ta see ya.” Zog’s head snaps in his direction, and he angrily stands as his mate gives him an amused smirk. Like he’s some sort of new pup fresh out of the vats…!

“Why didn’t ya just say that ta begin with?! Dim glob!” He shoves him out of the way and Pushkrimp giggles and snorts like it’s actually funny, or something.

The ground crunched underfoot, a mixture of old and new soot and volcanic rock. Old brambles caught on unguarded shins and clothing alike, irritating, but not biting into toughened skin. Gorgoroth was nearly inhospitable; only the strongest bodies and minds could outlast the constant threats of wild beasts, the spitting mountain, and rival tribes all at once. Lack of food, water, and reasonably safe sleeping burrows made daily life hard, but those hardships were nothing but mundane to the uruks that made this ash heap their home. Some had lived here all their lives, and most believe that they will die here, underneath their Lord’s watchful gaze and in Doom’s shadow.

Not many of the Feral tribe remained in Gorgoroth for long stretches of time; it’s choked skies and dead lands often leave the lot feeling disconnected and confused, not to mention the strain the choked air places on beast and master, alike. Most leave after a few seasons, usually far sooner, when possible. But there are a select few that stay for the majority of their lives, for what reason, none can truly say, but they are some of the toughest old globs in all of Mordor. Or so they, themselves, say. Zog thinks they’re a bit dim, far dimmer than even his litter mate, Pushkrimp, though he can barely believe it, himself.

The camp is abuzzed with life and movement, as always. Young and old all intermingled and worked side by side, day and night doing a variety of dull, but necessary tasks; hunting, skinning, carving, tanning, taming- on and on, with the work never ending and never deviating from what is expected or required of them. Boring. It was unbearably boring here, and Zog was unsure of how much more he could take before he simply-

“YOU! DIMWIT! ‘ERE! NOW!”

Zog couldn’t stop himself from cringing, screwing his eyes shut as his shoulders reached his ears. That bastard’s voice could make a caragor tuck its tail in between its legs and head in the opposite direction. Pushkrimp snickered just in front of him, and just as he continued walking-

“BOTH OF YOU!”

Now it was Zog’s turn to giggle and smirk. His litter mate looked truly aghast and shocked, as though it was never the both of them getting in trouble at the same time, all the time. They both shuffled over to the older uruk, scarred and missing a portion of his left hand. ‘This is why ya don’t fuck with caragors, boys.’ He’d always say. Yeah? No shrakh… Zog tried to maintain a neutral face as he watched the uruk become seemingly more and more annoyed with each step he and his mate took towards him. How could he not crack a grin when the old arse’s face became flushed dark grey as they stood just in front of him, heads hanging low like they were already whipped, or something. After a few awkward and tense moments of silence, the older uruk finally speaks up.

“…Well?” His arms are crossed, and he is staring at Zog expectantly. The young trickster does his best to look unphased by his scalding glare.

“Well, what?” Wrong choice of words. His hood is snatched, along with a fistful of his wild, red hair as he is dragged off, cursing and complaining the whole way. Pushkrimp was left unsure if he should follow, unil a “COME, DIMWIT!’ was thrown at him from over Zog’s crumpled and limping form. They were both forcibly guided to the other side of camp, until they were deposited near a particularly sour and hot headed elder, Kuga. Zog and this old bastard often butted head with one another, and he was a bit disappointed in himself for being caught so easily when it really could have been anyone that had-

“You little shrakh…! What the ‘ell do you get outta being such a pain in the arse for?! EH?!” Zog could only just barely make eye contact with his elder, having to awkwardly crane his neck to even capture a glimpse of him from how both his hood and hair were still tightly grasped and being shaken every now and then. Pushkrimp shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, trying his best to not look completely guilty, and failing miserably all the while. Useless glob… Pushkrimp is always the reason why Zog gets caught!

“…don’t know what ya talkin’ ‘bout- OW!” Claws graze past Zog’s scalp and nearly ripped out an entire fistful of coppery hair. Zog just barely manages to both untangle the slender, spider-like fingers from his hair and swat away any attempts to repeatedly smack him on the back of the head.

“A-ALRIGHT, ALRI- OI! I SAID FINE!” Zog held his hands up in defeat, partially using them to protect him from the blows that still haven’t stopped landing on him. After one last, good and loud SMACK on the back of his head, it mercifully stops.

“You little maggot! Ya think it’s funny ta fuck about with yer elders?! Think it’s funny ta rile up the caragors and send ‘em in a rage?! Well, brat, whaddya gotta say for yerself?!” Zog could practically feel Boss raising his hand to hit him again, and his survival instincts took over, rather than his need to protect his pride.

“ACK- Y-Yeah, yeah! Fuckin’ hilarious! D-Don’t ‘it me on the damn ‘ead, anymore!” Kuga shook his head disapprovingly, causing Pushkrimp to duck his head in shame. No good bastard… Can’t take a tongue lashing if his life depended on it. Dull, throbbing pin prickles dotted the trickster’s head, and he uncomfortably scratched at his sensitive scalp as a chorus of “dumb pups” and “should of sent ‘em off” was muttered about.

“Why must ye be such a pain in the arse, Zog?” The young Feral couldn’t help but to cringe at his name being spoken, both outright and in such a disappointed tone to boot. He simply shrugged, refusing to look the old uruk in the eye. The elder sighs, and then turns to a much more bashful and visibly uncomfortable Pushkrimp.

“And you. Don’t be lookin’ all whipped ‘n shrakh! You’re innit just as much as ‘e is! Stupid sods, the lot of ya!” He all but withers under Kuga’s harsh gaze, and Zog briefly wonders if he’ll pass out or something. But no, Pushkrimp takes as much lip as Zog does, and stands on his feet through it all. At the end of the tirade about how you don’t get to be annoying shrakhs at your age, his demeanor changes almost instantly. Oh. Oh no.

“You lads clearly have too much time on yer hands! Guess that means that ya wouldn’t mind helpin’ ole Grisha, would you?”

Oh no.

“Oh shrakh! C’mon, not that! Anything but- but that!!” Zog groans, his palm connecting with the bridge of his nose far harder than he intended. Pushkrimp merely sighed heavily, shoulders dropping as far as his face did. Grisha… Weapons master. If they are being punished, then it can mean only one thing.

“Shut your trap, brat! You need ta learn yer place and learn when to shut up! Get on over there and to work! Those arrows ain’t gonna feather ‘emselves!” With an “encouraging” shove, Zog and Pushkrimp are sent nearly flat on their asses. Defeat was so clear on their faces, the others in their camp didn’t have to ask to know what kind of punishment they were destined for on the long walk to the impromptu forge their weapons master had set up.

They didn’t even need to announce themselves. It would seem that word had reached Grisha before the lads did, as he was already standing there, waiting silently and impatiently. Zog wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off of his face, but even he knew when to shut up and take it, and now was the time to accept the punishment with what little grace he had left. No words were exchanged as the two Feral lads settled into their work, the piles upon piles of featherless arrows already making their fingers chaffe and their joints ache. It didn’t take long for the two of them to become restless in their extraordinary dull task. Legs jumping, feet tapping, bodies shifting and huffing every other breath. Soon, boredom took over, and both Zog and Pushkrimp began to whisper amongst themselves.

“Where do ya always go, Zog?”

“Hnn?” Zog was barely conscious at this point. His movements were almost innate, as involuntary as breathing at this point. He hates feathering arrows, and he swears to the Dark Flame that he’ll never pick up a bow for as long as he lives.

“All the time, ya just… disappear. Where ya goin’?” Pushkrimp isn’t even fletching, anymore. Rather, he is just idly fiddling with the oily black feathers in between his thumb and forefinger,worrying a few stray tufts with the tips of his nails. Zog blinks a few times before tossing another finished arrow into the pile, sitting upright and turning to his mate.

“Eh, nowhere? Just… going out, ‘suppose…” He shrugs, nudging a few stray arrows away with the tip of his foot. Pushkrimp allows the feather to fall to the ground and watches it shift in the subtle breeze.

“Yeah, right. Yer doin’ somethin’ you ain’t supposed to do, ain’t ya?” Zog rolls his eyes, unfolding his stiff legs with an audible pop! Ever the perceptive one, isn’t he…?

“Nah, ain’t doin’ nothin’. Why do you care, anyways? Ain’t ya tired of gettin’ them on yer arse?” Pushkrimp barks out a sudden laugh, followed by Grisha yelling at them to get back to work, ya stupid globs! After a few moments of tense silence, they continued their conversation, albeit much quieter than before.

“…Nah, nah, ain’t like that, Zog. I don’t mind pissin’ the older lads off with ya ‘er whatever. Just- Dunno… wanderin’ where ya goin’ all the time, ‘s all.” Zog pauses thoughtfully.

Really, a part of him didn’t want to admit what he’s been doing in all of his spare time, but… It’s Pushkrimp. They tell everything to one another, and there’s no way that he could possibly keep this to himself. Especially when that sod is involved… They haven’t taken the oaths yet, but really, Zog sees the uruk as a brother. A blood brother… He wondered if the larger uruk felt as strongly as he did, but Zog wouldn’t dare ask such a question aloud. Sure, Pushkrimp has called him his brother before, but… they were litter mates. What if he saw it all wrong…? Before Zog realized it, he was already chewing on his crooked claws, picking at his teeth and feeling the strain it places on his jaw when he clamps down and rolls the nail in between his fangs.

“Hmmph… I’ll tell ya, but-!” Zog removes his saliva coated finger from his mouth and points it at his mate. “-ya keep your trap shut, got it?” Pushkrimp sits upright, excitedly kicking his legs out as he nods repeatedly, that stupid, toothy smirk of his plastard on his face. Anxiously checking that Grisha wasn’t watching them slack off, Zog scoots closer to Pushkrimp, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and cupping his hand near his mouth.

“Been tryin’ ta learn readin’ ‘n writin’-” Pushkrimp gasps loudly and turn to face Zog, nose nearly brushing his own.

“You leanin’ WHA- MMHPHM?!” Zog hisses in between his teeth and firmly clamps a hand over Pushkrimp’s mouth. The other uruk’s eyes have a mischievous glint in them, one that Zog knew all too well and knew that would lead to nothing but trouble. And they both certainly liked trouble…

“Shhhhh-!! Shut yer fat gob!!! Dimwit…!” Zog snarls under his breath. Pushkrimp giggles and snorts from behind his hand, grabbing ahold of Zog’s thin wrist and wrenching his palm away from his smirking face.

“Dimwit, eh…?” Zog’s face flashes with a mixture of embarrassment and anger, and he shoves his mate away, though the action has very little bite to it, and the other allows himself to fall to his side, giggling all the while.

“I said ‘keep yer trap shut’ ya bastard!” Zog picks up an arrow and starts poking Pushkrimp on his exposed shins, nowhere near hard enough to actually hurt. Between all the giggling and soft swearing, Grisha’s attention is gained and the older uruk chucks a hunk of slate at them yelling at them to shut the fuck up and get back to it!

They continued to discreetly talk as they feathered the remaining arrows, making sure to not garner any additional attention lest they get pegged in the head with a rock, or other heavy object. That Grisha may seem like he’s a bit slow, but damn does he have a good throwing arm from his time as a hunter. Pushkrimp repeatedly prodded Zog about him teaching himself to read and write. How’d ya do it? What’s it look like? Can ya show me sometime?! He was always eager to get involved in whatever Zog was already nose deep in, and really, having a partner in this probably wouldn’t hurt, right? This glob has always been by Zog’s side, and that certainly wouldn’t change simply because Zog was doing something rather… bizarre for a member of his tribe to be doing. It’s never stopped them before, and it surely won’t stop them now, or anytime in the near or distant future.

Life in Gorgoroth was certainly difficult, dangerous, even, but it could also be mundane. It’s far too easy to become complacent in the day to day struggle to survive, but somehow they all make due in their own ways. Life ends as suddenly as it starts in Mordor, making it far too easy to forget the little things that make life worth living. Bonds are fickle things to form, and normally far too brittle to withstand the hardships of this land. Unless they are truly unique, formed by extraordinary uruks in equally unique circumstances. They are rare things, but they are sacred, coveted, treasured. They are things that even the most battle hardened and calloused uruk can’t help but to dream of achieving. Having another at your back, to truly have another to protect you and care for you when you are both at your strongest and your weakest? Those that have that don’t understand how lucky they are, not fully. Not until it’s all taken away one day and they are left with nothing but a hurt and a longing that will never heal, not for the rest of their miserable existence.

Zog wouldn’t let that be his and Pushkrimp’s fate. No matter how many times he combed through all the possibilities that his life could take, he couldn’t see one without Pushkrimp by his side. Maybe things would change with time. Maybe, but Zog desperately prays that it won’t be so. He needs his mate at his back. He needs his support, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that he’s stronger than he truly is. Things will be okay. Things will change, but this won’t. They’ll always have each other’s back, no matter what. No matter what…

@sinick, @elvenmoans, @boozy-dwarf

#middle earth shadow of mordor #middle earth shadow of war #shadow of war #zog the eternal #urukhai #orc culture #early life #uruk ocs

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