Cacti Quotes

Wilf: God bless the cactuses! The Doctor: That's cactI. Alien: And that's racist!

Now tequila may be the favored beverage of outlaws but that doesn't mean it gives them preferential treatment. In fact, tequila probably has betrayed as many outlaws as has the central nervous system and dissatisfied wives. Tequila, scorpion honey, harsh dew of the doglands, essence of Aztec, crema de cacti; tequila, oily and thermal like the sun in solution; tequila, liquid geometry of passion; Tequila, the buzzard god who copulates in midair with the ascending souls of dying virgins; tequila, firebug in the house of good taste; O tequila, savage water of sorcery, what confusion and mischief your sly, rebellious drops do generate!

There are people like Senhor José everywhere, who fill their time, or what they believe to be their spare time, by collecting stamps, coins, medals, vases, postcards, matchboxes, books, clocks, sport shirts, autographs, stones, clay figurines, empty beverage cans, little angels, cacti, opera programmes, lighters, pens, owls, music boxes, bottles, bonsai trees, paintings, mugs, pipes, glass obelisks, ceramic ducks, old toys, carnival masks, and they probably do so out of something that we might call metaphysical angst, perhaps because they cannot bear the idea of chaos being the one ruler of the universe, which is why, using their limited powers and with no divine help, they attempt to impose some order on the world, and for a short while they manage it, but only as long as they are there to defend their collection, because when the day comes when it must be dispersed, and that day always comes, either with their death or when the collector grows weary, everything goes back to its beginnings, everything returns to chaos.

The desert seems to be a brown wasteland of dry, prickly scrub whose only purpose is to serve as a setting for the majestic saguaros. Then, little by little, the plants of the desert begin to identify themselves: the porcupiny yucca, the beaver tail and prickly pear and barrel cacti, buckhorn and staghorn and devil's fingers, the tall, sky-reaching tendrils of the ocotillo.

So, a crash course for the amnesiac,” Leo said, in a helpful tone that made Jason think this was not going to be helpful. “We go to the ‘Wilderness School’”—Leo made air quotes with his fingers. “Which means we’re ‘bad kids.’ Your family, or the court, or whoever, decided you were too much trouble, so they shipped you off to this lovely prison—sorry, ‘boarding school’—in Armpit, Nevada, where you learn valuable nature skills like running ten miles a day through the cacti and weaving daisies into hats! And for a special treat we go on ‘educational’ field trips with Coach Hedge, who keeps order with a baseball bat.

I smiled into my pillow, closed my eyes, wished for the feeling to last. I saw our futures unfolding, all pink clouds and cacti and bright sun and forever.

But every town had been promising. Every place at first had said, Here you go- You can live here. You can rest here. You can fit. The enormous skies of the Southwest, the shadows that fell over the desert mountains, the innumerable cacti- red-tipped, or yellow-blossomed, or flat-headed- all this had lightened him when he first moved... ...But as with them all, the same hopeful differences--...-- they all became places that sooner or later, one way or another, assured him that he didn't, in fact, fit.

Our brains are not evolved for this world of plenty. As Dr. Tom Finucane, who studies diabetes in the setting of chronic sedentary feeding, said, “We are cacti in the rain forest.” And like cacti adapted to an arid climate, we are drowning in dopamine.

Through the window, I saw the beautiful world outside: the sky, the sun, the cacti, the rocks, and the dirt. How I longed to return to it! I licked at the air, trying to smell the desert's delicious dusty scent, but could not. How was I able to see it without smelling it? Did humans control scents as well as the temperature and the waters? Is that what windows were for, to keep out scents? Why did they wish to put invisible barriers between themselves and the world?

Few western wonders are more inspiring than the beauties of an Arizona moonlit landscape; the silvered mountains in the distance, the strange lights and shadows upon hog back and arroyo, and the grotesque details of the stiff, yet beautiful cacti form a picture at once enchanting and inspiring; as though one were catching for the first time a glimpse of some dead and forgotten world, so different is it from the aspect of any other spot upon our earth.

He had a little single-story house, three bedrooms, a full bathroom and a half bathroom, a combined kitchen-living room-dining room with windows that faced west, a small brick porch where there was a wooden bench worn by the wind that came down from the mountains and the sea, the wind from the north, the wind through the gaps, the wind that smelled like smoke and came from the south. He had books he'd kept for more than twenty-five years. Not many. All of them old. He had books he'd bought in the last ten years, books he didn't mind lending, books that could've been lost or stolen for all he cared. He had books that he sometimes received neatly packaged and with unfamiliar return addresses, books he didn't even open anymore. He had a yard perfect for growing grass and planting flowers, but he didn't know what flowers would do best there--flowers, as opposed to cacti or succulents. There would be time (so he thought) for gardening. He had a wooden gate that needed a coat of paint. He had a monthly salary.

...celebrating in a sea of little more than cacti and a billion stars.

The sounds of southwestern cacti are broadcast for several weeks until, by general assent, it is agreed that cacti make no sounds.

The Everglades was the only place on earth where alligators (broad snout, fresh water, darker skin) and crocodiles (pointy snout, salt water, toothy grin) lived side by side. It was the only home of the Everglades mink, Okeechobee gourd, and Big Cypress fox squirrel. It had carnivorous plants, amphibious birds, oysters that grew on trees, cacti that grew in water, lizards that changed colors, and fish that changed genders. It had 1,100 species of trees and plants, 350 birds, and 52 varieties of porcelain-smooth, candy-striped tree snails. It had bottlenose dolphins, marsh rabbits, ghost orchids, moray eels, bald eagles, and countless other species that didn't seem to belong on the same continent, much less in the same ecosystem.

Americans didn't know why they'd become so obsessed with cacti-they just accepted the fact that drought-resistant plants were the new must-haves for office and home design in the mindless way they'd once accepted ferns, but really, what was going on was a socially sanctioned apathy toward the planet's overheating. it was apocalyptic acclimatization by way of indoor plants.

Dr Maturin had many of the virtues required in a medical man... yet he had some faults, and one was a habit of dosing himself, generally from a spirit of inquiry, as in his period of inhaling large quantities of the nitrous oxide and of the vapour of hemp, to say nothing of tobacco, bhang in all its charming varieties in India, betel in Java and the neighbouring islands, qat in the Red Sea, and hallucinating cacti in South America, but sometimes for relief from distress, as when he became addicted to opium in one form or another; and now he was busily poisoning himself with coca-leaves, whose virtue he had learnt in Peru.

A sloping, earthy passage inside the barrel travels upwards a little way until a cosy, round, low-ceilinged room is revealed, reminiscent of a badger’s set. The room is decorated in the cheerful, bee-like colours of yellow and black, emphasised by the use of highly polished, honey-coloured wood for the tables and the round doors that lead to the boys’ and girls’ dormitories (furnished with comfortable wooden bedsteads, all covered in patchwork quilts). A colourful profusion of plants and flowers seem to relish the atmosphere of the Hufflepuff common room: various cacti stand on wooden circular shelves (curved to fit the walls), many of them waving and dancing at passers-by, while copper-bottomed plant holders dangling amid the ceiling cause tendrils of ferns and ivies to brush your hair as you pass under them. A portrait over the wooden mantelpiece (carved all over with decorative dancing badgers) shows Helga Hufflepuff, one of the four founders of Hogwarts School, toasting her students with a tiny, two-handled golden cup.

I heard a young city boy ask an elderly Papago woman if, lacking a harvesting pole, one could ever collect fruit off the tall cacti by throwing rocks at the tops to knock the fruit down. 'NO!' Marquita replied with a strain of horror in her voice. 'The saguaros- they are Indians too. You don't EVER throw ANYTHING at them. If you hit them on the head with rocks you could kill them. You don't ever stick anything sharp into their skin either, or they will just dry up and die. You don't do anything to hurt them. They are Indians.

There are people like Senhor José everywhere, who fill their time, or what they believe to be their spare time, by collecting stamps, coins, medals, vases, postcards, matchboxes, books, clocks, sport shirts, autographs, stones, clay figurines, empty beverage cans, little angels, cacti, opera programmes, lighters, pens, owls, music boxes, bottles, bonsai trees, paintings, mugs, pipes, glass obelisks, ceramic ducks, old toys, carnival masks, and they probably do so out of something that we might call metaphysical angst, perhaps because they cannot bear the idea of chaos being the one ruler of the universe, which is why, using their limited powers [...], they attempt to impose some order on the world, and for a short while they manage it, but only as long as they are there to defend their collection, because when the day comes when it must be dispersed, and that day always comes, either with their death or when the collector grows weary, everything goes back to its beginnings, everything returns to chaos.

Useless to say that I hadn't thought of him when I was doing it. Useless to say that I always thought your acquaintanceship with one person had nothing to do with another. Or to say all the things that went on in my head, the longings, for songs, cigarettes, dark bars, telegrams, cacti, combs in your hair, the circus, nights out, life. He wouldn't understand.

Tequila, scorpion honey, harsh dew of the doglands, essence of Aztec, crema de cacti; tequila, oily and thermal like the sun in solution; tequila, liquid geometry of passion; Tequila, the buzzard god who copulates in midair with the ascending souls of dying virgins; tequila, firebug in the house of good taste; O tequila, savage water of sorcery, what confusion and mischief your sly, rebellious drops do generate!

People think Baja California is the desert, and the desert is one single, flat, lonely space. Baja California is mountain ridges, clouds of fog spreading over the land, the salt fields, the shocking sight of a valley shaded by date palms, the orchards where olives grow, the stone missions with sun-dried adobe bricks left to crumble into dust, ancient caves decorated with two-headed serpents, —and yes, the desert dotted with cacti.

It’s not so bad,” Bast said. “We just climb our way down to the river through a few miles of sand, cacti, and rattlesnakes, looking out for the Border Patrol, human traffickers, magicians, and demons—and summon Nephthys.” Sadie whistled. “Well, I’m excited!” “Agh,” Khufu agreed miserably. He sniffed the air and snarled. “He smells trouble,” Bast translated. “Something bad is about to happen.” “Even I could smell that,” I grumbled, and we followed Bast down the mountain.

The human mind is stimulated by change, motivated by meeting the challenge of novelty or threat or pleasure, rewarded with the sensations of being instrumental in altering environments, and will persevere in this as long as there is some degree of perceivable progress. People turn to knitting baby booties, doing crossword puzzles, collecting rare coins; they may even make an effort to understand E=mc2 or to study the genetic adaptations of cacti, but in all cases, they need to see some fruit of their labors.

(he was a great believer in the healing powers of cheerfulness, if not of open mirth). Yet he had some faults, and one was a habit of dosing himself, generally from a spirit of enquiry, as in his period of inhaling large quantities of the nitrous oxide and of the vapour of hemp, to say nothing of tobacco, bhang in all its charming varieties in India, betel in Java and the neighbouring islands, qat in the Red Sea, and hallucinating cacti in South America, but sometimes for relief from distress, as when he became addicted to opium in one form or another; and now he was busily poisoning himself with coca-leaves, whose virtue he had learnt in Peru.

The Worm at the Bottom of the Bottle Blue agave, spiny like the desert cacti, once fermented in the mesquite barrels of Jalisco, Mexico, is now manifest in the liquid smoke of my Tequila bottle. By the third shot, I think I'm in love with the gusano, the red caterpillar people mistake for a worm, pickling intact, attesting to the purity of the holy spirits. I shake the bottle and the worm falls like the fresh powder in my Montreal snowglobe of an ice skater, the globe's Christmas melody replaced by La Cucaracha playing convivially on my mind's soundtrack (in a bit in a rut because I've forgotten the second stanza). The worm has hit bottom, and so have I. I don't take this an ominous portent, but as a sign it's time to ditch the glass and drink straight from the bottle.

A lesson from my earliest memories of my grandmother Dilsey, who was true-blood Iron Lake Ojibwe: Land is not insentient; it is possessed of spirit. Gazing down, I couldn’t help feeling that the fence and all it represented was a great violation of the spirit of the land. The mind-set that gave rise to the fence was a great folly, the idea that a thin wall of steel and the imaginary line it demarcated could stand against the tide that swept across the desert, which was the tide of time and changing circumstance. Politics were of a moment. Sentiments shifted. Nations rose and fell. Steel rusted and crumbled. But the desert and the flow of life across it would continue after that fence was nothing but scattered rubble among the cacti and the fear that built it was long forgotten.

The accident has occurred, the ship has broken, the motor of the car has failed, we have been separated from the others, we are alone in the sand, the ocean, the frozen snow I remember what I have to do in order to stay alive, I take stock of our belongings most of them useless I know I should be digging shelters, killing seabirds and making clothes from their feathers cutting the rinds from cacti, chewing roots for water, scraping through the ice for treebark, for moss but I rest here without power to save myself, tasting salt in my mouth, the fact that you won't save me watching the mirage of us hands locked, smiling, as it fades into the white desert. I touch you, straighten the sheet, you turn over in the bed, tender sun comes through the curtains Which of us will survive which of us will survive the other

The Temperance (XIV) Card “Highway 17 in Texas: we stop to watch buzzards supping on a roadkill porcupine. The mountains are a Persian rug of emerald and brown, wolfish clouds gathering rain. The towns stack up like a tarot deck. A row of Mexican women stand at clotheslines, shake the static from dresses. The fortune you believe is the one you'll get. Eres muy sexy, says the wrinkled man at the gas station. Eres divina. The jade cottonwoods speak of flooding; the yucca tattle on the south. You might say this about exile, mountains eroded by six hundred years of women's feet, the heavy press from babies and water buckets. Forty miles south, mothers find their daughters' bodies in boxes. The dusk is a murder of magenta and indigo against the black land, as monstrously beautiful as a rape tree. As we drive, a brown woman names the dying plants. She reads the cacti like an open palm.

Occasionally, a prickly pear cactus blocked my path. I maneuvered around the larger, invincible plants, but stomped down the weaker, two-foot-high cacti that were in my way As we struggled to carry the two hundred pound litter, twilight deepened and it became harder and harder to see. I aggressively stomped what I thought was a small cactus that was in my way. In the growing shadows I didn’t realize that I was only seeing the top two feet of a giant cactus that jutted above the lip of an arroyo. The rest of the massive cactus was hidden below the edge of the gully. My stomp carried me forward over the edge of the drop-off. I instinctively let go of the litter, extended my arms to break my fall and tumbled into the welcoming embrace of the “mother of all” cacti. My spontaneous girlish, high pitched scream startled everyone into immobility, stopping their forward travel. My bemused teammates cautiously peered over the ledge and saw me crucified on a giant prickly pear cactus. I felt like I was nailed to the plant, unable to move a muscle. Apparently, my rampant stomping of baby cacti had earned me bad cactus karma and the enmity of Mother Nature. As my teammates carefully pried me off the bloody cactus patch, I swear I could hear the other nearby cacti chuckling softly.

A long time ago, I collected the flower petals stained with my first blood; I thought there was something significant about that, there was importance in all the little moments of experience, because when you live forever, the first times matter. The first time you bleed, first time you cry — I don’t remember that — first time you see your wings, because new things defile you, purity chips away. your purity. nestled flowers in your belly, waiting to be picked. do you want innocence back? small and young smiles that make your eyes squint and cheeks flare the feeling of your face dripping down onto the grass, the painted walls you tore down, the roads you chipped away, they’ll eat away at you, the lingering feelings of a warm hand on your waist, the taps of your feet as you dance, the beats of your timbrel.’ ‘and now you are like Gods, sparkling brilliant with jewelry that worships you, and you’re splitting in order to create.’ ‘The tosses of your wet hair, the rushes of chariots speeding past, the holy, holy, holy lord god of hosts, the sweetness of a strawberry, knocks against the window by your head, the little tunes of your pipes, the cuts sliced into your fingers by uptight cacti fruits, the brisk scent of a sea crashing into the rocks, the sweat of wrestling, onions, cumin, parsley in a metal jug, mud clinging to your skin, a friendly mouth on your cheeks and forehead, chimes, chirps of chatter in the bazaar, amen, amen, amen, the plump fish rushing to take the bread you toss, scraping of a carpenter, the hiss of chalk, the wisps of clouds cradling you as you nap, the splashes of water in a hot pool, the picnic in a meadow, the pounding of feet that are chasing you, the velvet of petals rustling you awake, a giant water lily beneath you, the innocent kiss, the sprawl of the universe reflected in your eyes for the first time, the bloody wings that shred out of your back, the apples in orchards, a basket of stained flowers, excited chants of a colosseum audience, the heat of spinning and bouncing to drums and claps, the love braided into your hair, the trickles of a piano, smell of myrrh, the scratches of a spoon in a cup, the coarseness of a carpet, the stringed instruments and trumpets, the serene smile of not knowing, the sleeping angel, the delight of a creator, the amusement of gossip and rumors, the rumbling laughter between shy singing, the tangling of legs, squash, celery, carrot, and chayote, the swirled face paint, the warmth of honey in your tea, the timid face in the mirror, mahogany beams, the embrace of a bed of flowers, the taste of a grape as its fed to you, the lip smacks of an angel as you feed him a raspberry, the first dizziness of alcohol, the cool water and scent of natron and the scratch of the rock you beat your dirty clothes against, the strain of your arms, the columns of an entrance, the high ceilings of a dark cathedral, the boiling surface of bubbling stew, the burn of stained-glass, the little joyous jump you do seeing bread rise, the silky taste of olive oil, the lap of an angel humming as he embroiders a little fox into his tunic, the softness of browned feathers lulling you to sleep, the weight of a dozen blankets and pillows on your small bed, the proud smile on the other side of a window in a newly-finished building, the myrtle trees only you two know about, the palm of god as he fashions you from threads of copper, his praises, his love, his kiss to your hair, your father.

Gene Autry riding into coral skyline while the cacti stand up ancient and timeless

When he would steal a kiss from her, it always took her breath away. No one kissed like Rick. No other man was able to make her lose all conception of time when he kissed her. That was not all. Rick was fun to work with and made her laugh. As a partner, he had talents that she desperately needed in her business. He was a cunning and crafty man, and his talents helped in solving many cases.

As they passed the giant saguaro cacti, Amelia knew they were getting close to home. They were magnificent, standing like humungous pitchforks in the middle of the desert. To her, it represented the American West... Amelia noticed Sam in the distance. He seemed intrigued by the Teddy Bear Chollas. Sam was not originally from Arizona, so he seemed enchanted by the fuzzy little cactus. As he reached toward it, Amelia yelled, "Stop! No! Don't touch that, Sam!" But it was too late. The little razor sharp needles seemed to jump toward his finger...

Why would you bother lying?” Her eyes darkened. “What would you gain?” “Your ruffles?” He watched her face and knew the moment when she realized he was teasing her. “You said I could steal them, yes?” “As I recall, we decided you should take them when I wasn’t in them.” He ran a knuckle along the shadowy contour of her jaw. She tipped her head to press her cheek into his palm, tears spilling in sparkling splendor from her eyes. “Oh, Hunter, I should have trusted you. I’m so sorry. After all you’ve done for us, how will you ever forgive me?” “It is finished,” he murmured. “No sorrow, eh? Only gladness. Your Aye-mee is yours, so she is mine. It is a very simple thing, yes?” Through the gloaming, he could see her features softening, her quivery lips tipping up at the corners in a smile. She was not easy with him yet. A sudden move from him would set her heart to pounding again. Her smile encouraged him, though. He ran his palm up the curve of her back and then removed his arm from around her, amused at how swiftly she rolled off him, fussing with her many skirts to be sure her ruffled breeches weren’t exposed. Her shyness baffled him. He could remember how her body looked in firelight, her skin as pale as moonbeams, the tips of her breasts the delicate pink of cacti blossoms. How could such loveliness bring shame?

He ran his palm up the curve of her back and then removed his arm from around her, amused at how swiftly she rolled off him, fussing with her many skirts to be sure her ruffled breeches weren’t exposed. Her shyness baffled him. He could remember how her body looked in firelight, her skin as pale as moonbeams, the tips of her breasts the delicate pink of cacti blossoms. How could such loveliness bring shame?

When I was little and out on walks with my mom, she would point out cacti we passed in the neighborhood and say, “Never touch those or you’ll get stickers in your skin and it will hurt a lot.” I internalized that lesson pretty well. Then I went to preschool and the teachers told me that if I was good, they would give me a sticker.

The park itself is marked by drought. Grass is dead. A large pond contains a mere puddle of muddy water, and a few scruffy ducks pad across its oily surface. Hardy trees persist here and there, but planting beds are home to cacti and a few swathes of invasive devil grass. Even in the city people are fighting against the painful truth of change. They don’t call it the climate crisis anymore, or global warming, or any other name that might have once have been used to urge positive action. Now, this was the norm.

The desert seems to be a brown wasteland of dry, prickly scrub whose only purpose is to serve as a setting for the majestic saguaros. Then, little by little, the plants of the desert begin to identify themselves: the porcupiny yucca, the beaver tail and prickly pear and barrel cacti, buckhorn and staghorn and devil’s fingers, the tall, sky-reaching tendrils of the ocotillo.

Below cascading breaths of storming sighs Shudder the petals of the desert skies; Gentle blossom, nestled flame atop thorns Savors languid sunbeams after gust storms, Breeze parted clouds afford warmth to the bud Softly caressing limbs windswept in mud, Draped spider tinsel on pin blades verdant Peacefully swing in the mellowed current, As raised arms pine for the sun’s strengthened gaze That’s nurtured generations long lost days, From arid desert sands, to seeds in soil From rainfall of winter, to summer’s toil, Stemmed firm to withstand changing tides time brings Cactus being ‘neath the winds flowing wings.

Like the sequoias and pin oaks, like cacti and seaweed, humanity too can age with grace and beauty.

It's easy to feel small when looking up at the constellations. That night in Arizona, while standing alone in a massive field of cacti under a field of stars, I certainly thought of my own insignificance in the universe. But I also thought about how my view of the Milky Way that night came courtesy of an entire city working together. And that knowledge made me feel big. Tucson hadn't just found a way to show off the stars - it had sown that seemingly inconsequential actions, done by enough people, can make an enormous difference.

Look,” he said. “See them?” A half mile away, specks filed out of an arroyo and trotted across the desert toward a shadeless forest of giant saguaro cacti that looked vaguely sinister profiled against the horizon.

Nikos stared out across the bleached sand, the scattered cacti and rock. “Walk with me a while, Bartolomeo.” We walked together across the hot sand, an arm’s length apart. I’d already lost my orientation, and when I looked around, I found I could not locate the entrance I’d used; I was struck by the irrational fear that I might never be able to find my way out of there. Or that Nikos would murder me. My body could remain undiscovered for decades. “We’ve been friends a lot of years, Bartolomeo.” “Were friends,” I corrected him. “No more?” “I don’t think so, Nikos.” He stopped, turned, and looked at me, his expression steady. If he’d been drinking recently, I couldn’t tell. Everything about him seemed sober and firm. “We’ve both made mistakes. Out of fear, or mistrust. Or perhaps even simple misunderstanding. Whatever the reasons. But is the damage to our friendship irreparable?” I’d thought so, but suddenly I was unsure. Watching him, listening to him, I was unable to detect any dissembling. He seemed sincere. Nikos could be deceptive and manipulative, but I always thought I could see through him. I’d missed it before, although looking back on it, I realized the signs had been there—I just hadn’t recognized them; maybe because I hadn’t wanted to. Now, though, I saw nothing but a sincere effort at reconciliation. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “Honest

Contrary to popular belief, Texas is not all tumbleweeds, cacti, and horses. I haven't seen a desert yet, and the people in Houston mostly look the same as people from back home, but with the occasional set of cowboy boots.

No matter what the terrain, everything in creation does what God designed it to do. Cacti grow up, not down. Wind blows. Rocks lie there. Snakes slither. Birds fly. Flowers bloom on schedule. There’s really only one part of creation that regularly tries to operate outside God’s design. That’s us.

The first mile was torture. I passed beneath the massive stone arch at the entrance to the school, pulled off the road and threw up. I felt better and ran down the long palm-lined drive to the Old Quad. Lost somewhere in the thicket to my left was the mausoleum containing the remains of the family by whom the university had been founded. Directly ahead of me loomed a cluster of stone buildings, the Old Quad. I stumbled up the steps and beneath an archway into a dusty courtyard which, with its clumps of spindly bushes and cacti, resembled the garden of a desert monastery. All around me the turrets and dingy stone walls radiated an ominous silence, as if behind each window there stood a soldier with a musket waiting to repel any invader. I looked up at the glittering facade of the chapel across which there was a mosaic depicting a blond Jesus and four angels representing Hope, Faith, Charity, and, for architectural rather than scriptural symmetry, Love. In its gloomy magnificence, the Old Quad never failed to remind me of the presidential palace of a banana republic. Passing out of the quad I cut in front of the engineering school and headed for a back road that led up to the foothills. There was a radar installation at the summit of one of the hills called by the students the Dish. It sat among herds of cattle and the ruins of stables. It, too, was a ruin, shut down for many years, but when the wind whistled through it, the radar produced a strange trilling that could well be music from another planet. The radar was silent as I slowed to a stop at the top of the Dish and caught my breath from the upward climb. I was soaked with sweat, and my headache was gone, replaced by giddy disorientation. It was a clear, hot morning. Looking north and west I saw the white buildings, bridges and spires of the city of San Francisco beneath a crayoned blue sky. The city from this aspect appeared guileless and serene. Yet, when I walked in its streets what I noticed most was how the light seldom fell directly, but from angles, darkening the corners of things. You would look up at the eaves of a house expecting to see a gargoyle rather than the intricate but innocent woodwork. The city had this shadowy presence as if it was a living thing with secrets and memories. Its temperament was too much like my own for me to feel safe or comfortable there. I looked briefly to the south where San Jose sprawled beneath a polluted sky, ugly and raw but without secrets or deceit. Then I stretched and began the slow descent back into town.

He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…. —Psalm 23:2–3 (KJV) I grew up on a farm, doing chores after school and helping with garden or livestock during the summer. I worked hard as a farm wife and mother, and later held a demanding job with a church social service agency. Although I’m now retired, I’m still most comfortable with a never-ending to-do list. That’s why I said no when my husband, Don, asked me to attend a business conference with him. “There wouldn’t be anything for me to do,” I explained. “The resort brochure lists golf as the main draw, and I don’t play.” Don didn’t give up, so I reluctantly packed my suitcase and off we went. The hotel was surrounded by the golf course. There were four swimming pools, but the daytime temperatures were in the low sixties. For the first time in years I had nothing to do. No schedule, no phone calls, no meetings. To my great surprise, I enjoyed it! I read the entire newspaper and worked both crossword puzzles. I ate lunch outdoors amid an improbable but stunning landscape of palm trees and pines, grape hyacinths, honeysuckle, and a dozen types of cacti. Afternoons, I walked the easier trails, sat in the sunshine, and watched ducks paddle around a pond. Since there was nothing productive I could do, I didn’t feel guilty about not doing it. The best part, though, was the lesson I took home: God speaks most clearly when I don’t do; I simply be. Heavenly Father, thank You for teaching me to still my soul. —Penney Schwab Digging Deeper: Ps 46:10

Inconstancy of every second punishes me. The wind, the rain, the clouds, the days, I try to grasp the hours but they banish me, And I remain in the vortex of incongruity. The lone coyote shrieks, Startling my soul into wakefulness. The Cacti bloom and the Wren beckons, Deepening my mind into dreamlessness. And the moments spend time with inconstancy, increasing the ease of uneasiness. Why this daily pilgrimage of ideas? When no saint has ever ceased the day! Still yearning for some magic hour, Where nothing but permanence dwells. Alas, only this thought be the only truth, That certainty in death is constant. And so, in every second, minute, hour, our only gain is memory. Be it bitter or sweet: it is ours! Rejoice.

He glided his greased hand up her thigh to her hip, acutely aware of how hot her skin was and how fragile her jutting hipbone felt against the leathery surface of his palm. She tossed her head and moaned, her sooty lashes fluttering on her flushed cheeks. He studied her face for a moment, then lowered his gaze to her breasts. The tips were the delicate pink of cacti blossoms. In all his life, he had never seen such nipples. The anger in his gut tightened into a knot, fiery and churning. Skidding his hand along the ladder of her ribs, he cupped the underside of her breast, then feathered his fingertips over its crest and watched the pebbled surface go taut and eager, thrusting upward for more. She moaned again and tossed her head, her forehead wrinkling in a bewildered frown. Clearly he was the first ever to touch her there. His smile, no longer suppressed, lifted one side of his mouth into a mocking grin. She was not so haughty when asleep, he thought. Her body, the body he had paid so many horses for, betrayed her and responded to him. It gave him a perverse satisfaction. His smile quickly disappeared when he realized with something of a shock that hers was not the only traitorous body.

It's, like ... therapeutic for people to fall apart, as long as they can hang on long enough to build back up.

But on the ground in modern day, the gap-toothed border wall on the U.S. side was in the advanced stages of decay. It was an unsightly, rusted monstrosity, thoughtlessly imposing itself through the cacti masses who, until a few decades ago, had been peacefully congregating for millions of years along what was now an arbitrary line begging to be taken seriously.

Cacti are so neat, they make me want to dance. Is that a good poem? Will you rate it on a scale of one to ten?

The journey into the vast unquiet universe, watched by faces in railway compartments, tolerant and incurious. In the nights Ravi curled up on luggage racks and slept to the soft beat of the rails. The names of railway stations changed, their scripts changed. Then on the road, up the high ranges, past hairpin bends in gasoline-perfumed buses. The roadway dust changed colour, sunrise and sunset changed places, directions were lost in an assailing infinity. The journey took him through cheerless suburbs, through streets of sordid trades, past cacti villages and lost townships of lepers, and ashramas where, in saffron beds, voluptuous swaminis lay in wait for nirvana.

Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of useless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought, but they weren't good for him. The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but the cacti were neither as big nor as impressive as the yuccas. Or was that yucci? Possibly, Malone mused, it was simply yucks. And whatever it was, there were millions of it. Malone felt he couldn't stand the sight of another yucca. He was grateful for only one thing.

Since cacti pretty much advertise the fact that if you get close, they’ll hurt you, you wouldn’t think that people would plant cacti around their houses, but they do. It’s sort of the ultimate way of telling kids to keep out of their yards.

Five days after he came upstairs and opened the box of condoms, four days after they played pinball, Adelaide hadn’t heard from Jack. So she walked over to Uncle Benny’s. It did occur to her that their love might be a delicate flower that would wilt from too much attention. On the other hand, maybe it was a delicate flower that would die if she neglected it. Of course, Adelaide would rather think their connection was not a delicate flower at all, but a sturdy freaking cactus of a love, hardy and strong, able to withstand neglect and hard times—but then again, cacti are prickly. You need to approach them gently. Still, she went over. She wanted to see him.

But cacti know the real trick. Sometime in the last 35 million years, they rolled up their primordial leaves into spines, the most daring fashion accessory of the season. Multipurpose, too: a useful defense against nibblers, and a kind of sunshade and air-conditioning system in one. In the absence of leaves, photosynthesis moved to the green, leathery skin. Here another innovation took place: cacti learned to keep their pores (known as stomata) closed during the day, to prevent moisture from siphoning away into the unforgiving sky. They open their pores only during the cool hours of the night, squirreling away pockets of carbon dioxide, and complete the task of making sugar during the day. They also store water under their waxy skins and quickly grow networks of tiny roots after rain to siphon up moisture. One good storm can sustain a cactus through several years of drought. For all this, cacti can be extravagant too, coming out in showy blossoms in shades of cerise, gold, and crimson as gaudy as any high school prom dress. Clover and Jotter couldn’t have known all this (the details of cactus photosynthesis wouldn’t be worked out for decades). But in cataloging plants that thrived in extremes, they were adding to the general picture of evolution and adaptation, tracing the subtle threads of a tapestry that had been in the making for 3.5 billion years.

Hands caressing cacti as if they were silks

I had never considered cacti a particularly vicious life-form, but as the other dryads studied me, I could imagine them tying me up with a ribbon and a large card that said FOR CALIGULA, FROM NATURE and dropping me on the emperor’s doorstep. “Guys, that won’t help,” Grover said.

Like last time, when we walked into a bathroom and surprised a Cyclops on the toilet?’ ‘That wasn’t my fault!’ Grover protested. ‘Besides, this direction smells right. Like … cacti.’ Meg sniffed the air. ‘I don’t smell cacti.’ ‘Meg,’ I said, ‘the satyr is supposed to be our guide. We don’t have much choice but to trust him.’ Grover huffed. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Your daily reminder: I didn’t ask to be magically summoned halfway across the country and wake up in a rooftop tomato patch in Indianapolis!’ Brave words, but he kept his eyes on the twin rings around Meg’s middle fingers, perhaps worried she might summon her golden scimitars and slice him into rotisserie-style cabrito. Ever since learning that Meg was a daughter of Demeter, the goddess of growing things, Grover Underwood had acted more intimidated by her than by me, a former Olympian deity. Life was not fair. Meg wiped her nose. ‘Fine. I just didn’t think we’d be wandering around down here for two days. The new moon is in –’ ‘Three more days,’ I said, cutting her off. ‘We know.’ Perhaps I was too brusque, but I didn’t need a reminder about the other part of the prophecy. While we travelled south to find the next Oracle, our friend Leo Valdez was desperately flying his bronze dragon towards Camp Jupiter, the Roman demigod training ground in Northern California, hoping to warn them about the fire, death and disaster that supposedly faced them at the new moon. I tried to soften my tone. ‘We have to assume Leo and the Romans can handle whatever’s coming in the north. We have our own task.’ ‘And plenty of our own fires.

It was tempting to give it just a trace of water but he resisted the temptation – better that it was forced to adjust to its new environment. Too much care and attention could ruin it – it was a characteristic that cacti shared with agents in the field.

Cacti will destroy items. This is the safest way to dump anything. (Stay away from the lava if you have to!)

I placed my hand on Grover’s shoulder. “We know you’re doing your best. Let’s keep going. And while you’re sniffing for cacti, if you could keep your nostrils open for breakfast—perhaps coffee and lemon-maple cronuts—that would be great.

This biggest and most profound shift happened not be becoming richer or more successful or more famous or by being amid the glaciers and polar bears of Svalbard. It happened by waking up in the exact same bed, in the same grotty damp apartment with its dilapidated sofa bed and yucca plant and tiny potted cacti and bookshelves and untried yoga manuals.

Left Head: Middle was in a terrible mood for the entire day, and I can’t really blame him. I’ve been kind of sad, myself. But at least I haven’t been trying to explode everything that moves. Middle and Right have been chasing after sheep almost all afternoon. If that makes them feel better, then that’s just fine. Especially since they’re blowing up the spiders too. One of the skeletons told me about something even worse than spiders: silverfish! I don’t know exactly what they are, but I certainly don’t want to find any. I’ve told Middle and Right to stay away from any underground structures. I hope they listen to me. I’ve had enough of creepy things with too many legs! Middle Head: Left’s sudden and hilarious fear of bugs aside, we haven’t found out anything useful since losing track of Steve. Well, that’s not completely true. I caught a glimpse of something from the east. It seems to be a huge desert. At least nothing but cacti can grow there. I’m so tired of Right always going on and on about plants and growing things. I’ll blow up every flower between Steve and us if he keeps it up! Right Head: Middle was extra explode-y today. We went for a walk today and played with the sheep. =) I like it when Middle gets excited. He can shout realllly loud! =D And, he has a lot of nicknames for me. Things like “cretin” and “imbecile.” I don’t know what they mean, but Middle seems to have fun shouting them at me. =)

Middle Head: I’m surrounded by idiots. No really, I’ve got one on either side. Between the gardener and the bleeding heart, it’s amazing that we’ve made it this far. Left is right about one thing, though; the pyramid will make a good base of operations while we plan out our next move. And he’s right that we should probably stop blowing up everything on the way there. We’re making a rather obvious trail of destruction. He’s so annoying when he’s right. Well, I guess “Right” isn’t exactly the right word. Right is a complete idiot. And now I’ve confused him again. Well, it’s easier to just wait until he gets distracted than try to explain it. Right Head: But really, though. Left can’t be Right, right? I’m Right! Is there more than one Right? That has to be it. I’m on our right, but Left would be Right to someone else. Right? @_@ Oh no, my head hurts. Oh, more cacti! I like them a lot! They get so tall! =) And sometimes they blow up! =D Middle says those ones are actually creepers, but I know better. I want to grow my own cactus bombs! >=) Day Fourteen Right Head: The pyramid is super fun! =D I blew it all up!! >=D All it took was one little explosion, and then boom, boom, BOOM!!! Middle isn’t very happy with me, but he’s never happy. =/ Left is pretty mad too. And he never gets mad. =( I didn’t mean to blow everything up, but it was so much fun! I had a good day. =) Middle Head: That complete, utter, absolute moron! We finally make it to the pyramid after a whole day’s journey across the hot desert, and he blows it up! First thing! No conversation! Left says that we should check for booby traps, and then the idiot just starts shooting skulls all over the place! It’s a miracle that the explosion wasn’t even bigger! He’s lucky that we don’t have skin. I would tear his off and make it into a coat. Or shoes, if we had feet. All the fires of the Nether wouldn’t be enough to burn the stink of stupidity from my skull. Humph. Well, Left convinced me that we need to keep looking for Steve. He isn’t in this desert, and east still feels like the best way to go. We’ve been asking any skeletons we see about the best places to look. The zombies are all obsessed with some village nearby, and nothing else seems willing to talk to us.

Ergine (LSA) Ergine, or lysergic acid amide (LSA), is structurally similar to LSD with vaguely comparable effects. Users tend to find it more sedating, often nauseating, and generally less potent than LSD. However, at microdoses, it can boost mental clarity and focus while relieving anxiety and depression. It’s also naturally occurring and, while the compound itself is widely illegal, ergine-containing seeds are not. Morning glories and Hawaiian baby woodrose are among the best known plant sources, and both are legal to grow in the U.S. (except Arizona), the UK., and mainland Europe (except Italy). Common microdoses fall in the range of 5-15 morning glory seeds or 0.33-3 Hawaiian baby woodrose seeds. Usually, they’re chewed for about 20 minutes and held under the tongue to absorb the ergine sublingually. Mescaline Cacti are well known as some of the easiest plants to grow, practically taking care of themselves given the right conditions. And mescaline-containing cacti, such as peyote and San Pedro, are legal in most countries. Although peyote cultivation is restricted in the U.S. to members of the Native American Church (or Peyote Religion), San Pedro can freely be grown for ornamental purposes.

From what I knew Australia was a sort of inferno populated by kangaroos and cacti, where people disappear forever.

As I leave California, I cross the Mojave Desert, passing flowering cacti and yucca trees under a vast black sky prickling with stars. I don't know what will come of my relationship with Jon or if I will ever see Max again, but I no longer want to protect my heart. You can't guarantee that people won't betray you - they will, be it a breakup or something as big and blinding as death. But evading heartbreak is how we miss our people, our purpose. I make a pact with myself and send it off into the desert: May I be awake enough to notice when love appears and bold enough to pursue it without knowing where it will lead.

It is quite a revelation to discover that the place you wanted to escape to is the exact same place you escaped from. That the prison wasn’t the place, but the perspective. And the most peculiar discovery Nora made was that, of all the extremely divergent variations of herself she had experienced, the most radical sense of change happened within the exact same life. The one she began and ended with. This biggest and most profound shift happened not by becoming richer or more successful or more famous or by being amid the glaciers and polar bears of Svalbard. It happened by waking up in the exact same bed, in the same grotty damp apartment with its dilapidated sofa and yucca plant and tiny potted cacti and bookshelves and untried yoga manuals.

out of you, its spiky needle grass and cacti, its scorpions and vultures, its occasional cattle

It is quite a revelation to discover that the place you wanted to escape to is the exact same place you escaped from. That the prison wasn't the place, but the perspective. And the most peculiar discovery Nora made was that, of all the extremely divergent variations of herself she had experienced, the most radical sense of change happened within the exact same life. The one she began and ended with. This biggest and most profound shift happened not by becoming richer or more successful or more famous or by being amid the glaciers and polar bears of Svalbard. It happened by waking up in the exact same bed, in the same grotty damp apartment with its dilapidated sofa and yucca plant and tiny potted cacti and bookshelves and untried yoga manuals. There was the same electric piano and books. There was the same sad absence of a feline and lack of a job. There was still the same unknowability about her life ahead. And yet, everything was different. And it was different because she no longer felt she was there simply to serve the dreams of other people. She no longer felt like she had to find sole fulfillment as some imaginary perfect daughter or sister or partner or wife or mother or employee or anything other than a human being, orbiting her own purpose, and answerable to herself. And it was different because she was alive, when she had so nearly been dead. And because that had been her choice. A choice to live. Because she had touched the vastness of life and within that vastness she had seen the possibility not only of what she could do, but also feel. There were other scales and other tunes. There was more to her than a flat line of mild to moderate depression, spiced up with occasional flourishes of despair. And that gave her hope, and even the sheer sentimental gratitude of being able to be here, knowing she had the potential to enjoy watching radiant skies and mediocre Ryan Bailey comedies and be happy listening to music and conversation and beat of her own heart. And it was different because, above all other things, that heavy and painful Book of Regrets had been successfully burnt to dust.

Old philosophy textbooks looked down at her, ghost furnishings from her university days, when life still had possibility. A yucca plant and three tiny, squat potted cacti. She imagined being a non-sentient life form sitting in a pot all day was probably an easier existence.

So, all on a sudden, against all odds, when that piece of news quite hit him, when his thoughts were surprisingly cast onto a long-neglected land of long-withhold fertility, even the voices of his dead ancestors got stranded in the sands of the deserts, howled rather a sparking response of shocking discomfort back in his brains, as if, with his swirling waves of shock, they were taken out from the stale sands of the desert to the freezing waters of the Ganges without they themselves know of it, quite jarring, quite pandering; such a sudden and subtle transitioning from the hot to cold, from the scorching thorns of cacti to the soothing beds of scums.