Cactus Hotel (2023) Movie Script
1
Once the
whole world was a desert,
dry, hot, a barren wasteland,
like deserts typically are.
In the wild west of
America where I come from,
nothing has changed.
I'm used to it, adapted,
as you humans would say.
When I put down my roots over 200 years ago
only a few of you dared
to come down this way.
But you humans and I, we
have something in common,
guests are always welcome.
We can offer them
everything their hearts desire:
food, water, shelter,
and protection from the hot desert winds.
I am a carnegiea gigantea, a saguaro,
a massive cactus like a Methuselah
as you humans would say.
My time is coming to a close, but wait.
Before I bid you a final goodbye,
listen to my tale, the
story of this desert.
Let's go back a little,
a hundred and fifty, a hundred
eighty, two hundred years,
before cars or light bulbs
had even been invented
and I was still just a teenager.
I was happy then.
You see, I grew up in the
shadow of a palo verde tree.
Exposed directly to the sun,
I would've withered quickly.
The desert is ruthless.
To thrive here, you have to be prepared
and have a very thick skin
or be immune to pain.
Curve billed thrasher are
like fakirs on a bed of nails.
They can handle even the
spiciest of entanglements.
And here, they're young
are safe from nest robbers.
But the parents constantly
have to run the gauntlet
for them.
When I was growing up,
life without shade
would've been unthinkable.
The palo verde protected me
from the sun's burning rays.
Like a parasol, its sparse crown
kept the ground cool and damp.
Without its aid, I would've perished.
Sometimes the palo verde had guests.
A costa's hummingbird's nest
is about the size of a thimble.
It's young, barely bigger than a hazelnut.
For nests,
the birds weave spiders
silk into tiny bowls
that stick to the smallest twigs,
an ideal home for their offspring.
They grow up quickly, those kids.
After only three weeks,
they fly off into the world.
Three weeks, gone in the blink of an eye.
Now as the decades went by,
I grew stronger and tougher.
After about 50 years, my
life in the shadows was over.
I had outlived my nurse tree.
Its canopy was gone and I,
I was ready to brave the sun.
The palo verde's legacy
was the protection it provided
and the precious water our roots shared.
The water I inherited
from it lived on in me.
Now I was big enough to cast my own shadow
perfect for freshening up in the morning
just in time for breakfast.
Bed and breakfast for squirrels,
my life as a cactus hotel had begun.
Desert iguanas can withstand intense heat
but always need shelters within reach.
Their check-in is purely a formality.
The first two arrivals,
but who's at the front
desk and who's the guest?
My front yard becomes the place to meet.
That has never changed.
See and be seen, and pretty
soon you get used to each other.
Now, gestures may vary between species
but a tail flick is universally understood,
this is my spot.
No cuts.
After they're done fighting
over the best seat in the
house, it's time to chill.
When my neighbors, the
cholla cacti shed their chutes,
my front yard turns
into a thorny minefield,
impossible for many
small visitors to cross.
But here in the desert,
we have guests who aren't
deterred by thorns or spikes,
the restless pack rat.
And like all pack rats,
this one has a plan.
The remains of my former nurse tree
offer the perfect framework
for it to build its new den.
A labyrinth of chambers
and escape route made to
measure a mini personal fortress.
The rattlesnake is just
as perplexed as the rat
but it doesn't strike.
It's settled down for an extended rest
and isn't in a hunting mood.
Oh, really?
The rat remains skeptical,
but decides to stick to her plan.
As a seasoned builder,
she gets to work doing what she does best,
packing and repacking.
She keeps her eyes open
for her favorite material,
cholla chutes,
which she hooks together
to form a wall of thorns,
and the snake is locked out.
Pack rats aren't picky.
They put to use everything they find.
In a single night,
the comfort of my palo verde is transformed
into a cozy new home for a pack rat.
Change can attract some curious creatures.
These quails are just out
of reach for the coyote.
But what about that rat?
He can scent there's someone
in there, but how to get it?
The rat's done good work.
Her fortress is impregnable.
The coyote's lost interest
and retreated back into the desert.
Since then,
the space under my old
palo verde has been inhabited
by generations of pack rats
with ever-changing tenants.
At the age of about a hundred,
my arms began to grow.
That was a time
when millions of people
were migrating to America.
Settlers found their way to my desert
and marveled at my size,
a giant saguaro cactus
close to 50 feet tall.
Like a candelabra, my
arms reached up to the sky.
My shadow stretched
further than ever before
inviting guests to come my way.
Generations of squirrels came
by for their daily sand bath
and others gathered around my trunk too.
So many different
guests visited and stayed.
My hotel had its very own reception area.
The front yard became a
meet and greet for travelers
from far and wide.
When thrashers turn up,
trouble is right around the corner.
It becomes a free for all.
And all that fuss in the
lobby attracts predators.
The quails keep a watchful eye.
Their alarm calls warn everyone.
And that bobcat is left
standing in the dust.
A rare guest enters my lobby.
This primeval dragon takes her sweet time.
A gila monster can reach 40 years of age,
outliving most other animals in the desert.
Most of the time,
this venomous lizard only
moves in search of food,
but her thick tail tells us
she's got enough fat stored
in there to survive the next few weeks.
Her usual home is the underworld.
For most of her life, the
gila monster remains hidden
from the light of day.
Here in a small borough
at the end of my roots,
the female has deposited her treasure.
This well protected air conditioned spot
offers the perfect conditions for her eggs.
It takes three long months
for the young to mature and hatch.
It takes up to two days
for them to scramble free.
The first and probably
the only strenuous act
in their laid back life of minimal effort.
In their first weeks, they
don't need to eat anything.
They can survive on what
they brought with them
from the egg.
And even after hatching,
they still remain underground for months.
It's some time before they
venture out into the light.
Deep down at the lowest
levels of my labyrinth of roots,
there's a very special hotel storeroom
watched over, defended,
and tended to by a giant army.
Some of these ant's
abdomens are filled to bursting.
They're called repletes
and they're carrying a kind of liquid gold.
They're fed by their sisters
until they can barely take another step.
With their bloated bellies,
they're no longer suited
for life on the ground.
They hang motionless from the ceiling
and look like tiny honey pots.
The honey pot ants create
a valuable storage system.
When food is short, the repletes
share these syrupy reserves
with the other colony members.
Life insurance for a whole city,
a wondrous honey factory
in the vaults of my tangled hotel basement.
The best years of my life began
just as you humans were
on the edge of the abyss,
waging two world wars.
That's when my arms grew into a crown
and I became a majestic
multi branched skyscraper,
ready for anyone looking
for a home in the desert.
It didn't take long and
the first suite was occupied,
and not just by anyone,
but by America's largest owl.
Great horned owls need a good vantage point
and my upper floors provided
an ideal panoramic view.
They didn't come every year
but one season there was
a swarm of pack rats here
and the owls raised four
little owlets on my arms.
Their parents had no trouble
providing for their offspring.
Over 200 rats disappeared
into those little owl tummies
during their 10 week stay.
A year later and a little higher up,
I had my first experience
of unexpected renovations.
Only a woodpecker is strong enough
to break through my wax and skin,
and this one has a motive too.
The lady over him has high standards,
and his new home is not yet up to scratch.
One glance up and the message is clear,
you get back to work.
She even shows him how.
An inspection follows.
Hmm, not quite.
He moves on to another arm,
another inspection, and still not happy,
working overtime.
At last, the misses approves.
Gila woodpeckers have a lot of stamina.
Year after year, they
build a new nest cavity
creating ever greater living space.
So my hotel has more and more rooms
and vacancies are filled immediately.
New guests are lining up all the time.
The woodpeckers make
sure it's always high season.
Fly catchers prefer a home in the attic.
Sparrows can be found on my right arm
and just one floor down,
the smallest of all owls,
the elf owl has its own branch.
In no time, I upgraded from
a two star bed and breakfast
to an exclusive resort with
several luxurious towers
scratched up, dug under, hollowed out,
and always fully booked.
Word spreads quickly.
If the front desk is left unattended,
the gopher snake can slip past
all the way up to the apartment floors
and not even my thorns can
keep this scaly predator away.
Up it slithers.
This is extreme climbing.
It's been spotted
but the warning calls
don't phase the snake.
Gopher snakes are feared nest robbers,
slithering silently towards their prey
to strike at lightning speed.
But this room is vacant.
The reptile isn't on the hunt.
With her sixth sense,
she can feel a change
in the weather coming.
Only once in my lifetime,
I remember it like it was yesterday,
a strange, cold, white rain fell,
snow.
Cold crept into my pores.
Crystals sharp as my thorns
scratched at my vessels and waterways.
The whole ordeal lasted just a few hours
and never before had I longed
so desperately for the sun,
and by late morning it was over.
But from that day on around 30 years ago,
I was forever changed.
In the desert, things often
spring to life quite suddenly,
bees swarmed over my lobby.
Out of nowhere,
hundreds of them suddenly
buzzing up out of the ground,
digger bees.
Green-eyed drones comb the ground
in hopes of finding a mate.
They're there somewhere hidden in the sand.
Once they pick up a scent,
there's no stopping them.
There they are.
Females with bright red
eyes appear from below.
Not all drones get lucky,
and the ones that do get just one chance.
No time to whine and dine.
After mating,
it's time for the females
to do some digging.
They bury themselves in the sand
while the males having
given it all they've got
just turn over and die.
Only the red-eyed females still swarm
as each digs her own private tunnel
and deposits her eggs at the end of it.
When the entrances lie too close together,
there are squabbles.
Despite their shared mating ritual,
digger bees remain solitary creatures.
Then after a few days,
everything returns to normal.
The bees disappear as
suddenly as they came.
And so the years went
by filled with sunshine,
shade, and desert winds.
The constant underground
tunneling of ants, bees,
and gila monsters slowly took their toll
riddling my foundations.
And when the wind jostled
me above, my roots ached,
time to think about the future.
It happened for the first time
on a balmy spring night 150 years ago.
I blossomed.
My flowers open only
in the cool of the night.
They rely on specialists.
For the pollination to be successful,
I need help from the local nightlife,
lesser long nosed bats.
The heady scent of my
nectar lures them over
and they dive in headfirst
coating themselves in my pollen
which they then carry off
with them far beyond my reach.
They've gotta get on with it,
for the chalice of
seduction has a time limit.
In just a few hours,
my blossoms will close.
But come next morning,
they still look stunning.
And my rooftop bar opens
early, free nectar for all.
Sugar crazy honeybees
are the first to come by
and take a sip,
closely followed by an
armada of six legged patrons.
The perfume of my flowers
attracts hundreds of tiny visitors
from far and wide rejoicing
at my well-stocked rooftop bar.
Then the big ones wake
up and join the party,
rushing to find a spot
before it's too late,
plucking and quaffing as
if there were no tomorrow.
In return,
all the out-of-towners
get a load of my pollen.
At some point, it becomes almost impossible
to find a bee-free flagging.
Before they can dip their beaks,
those pesky bees have got to go.
Even with plenty of nectar to go around,
some guests just want
to hog it all for themselves.
Collateral damage is unavoidable.
But at my hotel nothing goes to waste,
even guests on the ground
floor get their money's worth.
Anything that comes crashing
down from the rooftop bar
lands right in front of
the squirrels, jackpot.
But here comes some other competitors,
so eat it up fast that carpel and pollen.
The javelina are perfectly content
with the leftover husks.
Every year, the monsoon comes
and dark clouds cover the sky.
It marks the beginning
of a difficult time for me.
The desert needs water.
I need water.
But these thunderstorms
are fierce and dangerous.
For us plants, there's no escape.
Flash floods wash away the soil
that covers my roots and
anything else in their way.
If you happen to be
growing in the wrong place,
you don't have a chance.
Once the deluge is passed,
anything still standing
breathes a sigh of relief.
I was lucky, my lobby was flooded,
but my guests gained a pool.
Everyone is welcome here, day trippers too.
And most of the time,
peace prevails until...
This pool is mine now,
he makes that very clear.
That means you.
And you too.
Curve billed thrashers
have a broad definition
of personal territory
and a pool in the hot
desert definitely fits the bill.
Ah, but wait.
This spiny lizard has chosen
the pool as his hunting ground.
Hmm, that hunter's too
good for his own good,
outta here.
Now these bees are all mine.
Pretty impressive.
Could this be the start
of a beautiful friendship?
The pool area is now a spa for everyone,
but the pool party gets cut short.
Now it's the big guy's turn.
In these parts,
you'll only find water
after a heavy rainfall.
But once they've had they're fun,
there's nothing left but a mud bath.
So drink first.
There is not a hog in the world
doesn't dream of a messy
wallow, however tiny the tub.
Unbeknownst to the javelina,
their bathtub has a secret drain.
My roots are some of the most
powerful in the plant kingdom,
absorbing water at high speed,
sucking it up into my trunk
before it can seep away or evaporate.
By sunset, my reserves
are fully replenished.
I've got enough to keep
me going for well over a year.
And a small puddle still remains
for thirsty late night passers by.
This coyote is wary of coming too close.
Why?
An armada of red spotted toads
has occupied the basin.
Appearing out of nowhere,
this clan has gathered in the water.
They've been waiting for
a year between my roots.
Now they're in ecstasy.
They only have just a
few nights to court, mate,
and lay eggs, the whole shebang.
Thirsty onlookers gawk and hesitate.
There's a definite hint
of toad poison here.
Better call it a night.
Bobcats may be fearless
hunters, but they are no fools.
He won't come anywhere near
these hotheaded cold-blooded amphibians.
A tactical retreat into the desert night.
For a few nocturnal hours,
the toads are in charge here.
Their time is running out though.
My roots are relentless,
absorbing almost all
the water from the pool,
soon there'll be nothing left.
In the monsoon season,
I can take on more than a ton of water,
perfect for a juicy harvest.
The sweet pulp of my fruit is
the super food of the Sonoran Desert,
drawing once again a rash of visitors.
And so they all come,
the birds and the bees, predators and prey.
Nobody can resist this
last tasty temptation.
They feast and indulge and as a byproduct,
carry millions of seeds
with the juicy fruit flesh
all over the desert.
And here the circle closes.
I spent two centuries
in the most beautiful desert in the world,
but time has taken its toll.
My thorns are falling,
small cracks have become deep furrows,
wounds that won't heal.
My life's elixir seeps away into the sand.
My guests are long gone, my hotel silent,
only the wind remains
incessantly buffeting my arms.
My foundation is eroded, porous.
The last pages of my memoirs are written.
After 200 years of
growing, thriving, and decay,
my end comes suddenly and unequivocally.
My life passed in slow
motion, as will my death.
A few more years and I'll be history.
I was, as you humans
would say, a Methuselah,
an old cactus hotel.
My guests eroded my roots, hollowed me out,
and tore at my trunk.
Undoubtedly, they hastened my demise
but they also secured my legacy,
carrying millions upon
millions of tiny seeds out
into the desert.
Perhaps some of them will share my luck
and find themselves in the
shadow of a palo verde tree
just as I once did on
a balmy spring evening
over 200 years ago.
I'm living down this road
I'm living down this road
A burn of scars in my soul
In my soul
Love is furious and fast
Love is furious and fast
I've dealt with the demons in my past
In my past
This road's gonna take your soul
This road's gonna take your soul
But every dog knows there's a dawn
I won't walk this road alone
This road's gonna take your soul
This road's gonna take your soul
But every dog knows there's a dawn
I won't walk this road alone
I won't walk this road alone
Once the
whole world was a desert,
dry, hot, a barren wasteland,
like deserts typically are.
In the wild west of
America where I come from,
nothing has changed.
I'm used to it, adapted,
as you humans would say.
When I put down my roots over 200 years ago
only a few of you dared
to come down this way.
But you humans and I, we
have something in common,
guests are always welcome.
We can offer them
everything their hearts desire:
food, water, shelter,
and protection from the hot desert winds.
I am a carnegiea gigantea, a saguaro,
a massive cactus like a Methuselah
as you humans would say.
My time is coming to a close, but wait.
Before I bid you a final goodbye,
listen to my tale, the
story of this desert.
Let's go back a little,
a hundred and fifty, a hundred
eighty, two hundred years,
before cars or light bulbs
had even been invented
and I was still just a teenager.
I was happy then.
You see, I grew up in the
shadow of a palo verde tree.
Exposed directly to the sun,
I would've withered quickly.
The desert is ruthless.
To thrive here, you have to be prepared
and have a very thick skin
or be immune to pain.
Curve billed thrasher are
like fakirs on a bed of nails.
They can handle even the
spiciest of entanglements.
And here, they're young
are safe from nest robbers.
But the parents constantly
have to run the gauntlet
for them.
When I was growing up,
life without shade
would've been unthinkable.
The palo verde protected me
from the sun's burning rays.
Like a parasol, its sparse crown
kept the ground cool and damp.
Without its aid, I would've perished.
Sometimes the palo verde had guests.
A costa's hummingbird's nest
is about the size of a thimble.
It's young, barely bigger than a hazelnut.
For nests,
the birds weave spiders
silk into tiny bowls
that stick to the smallest twigs,
an ideal home for their offspring.
They grow up quickly, those kids.
After only three weeks,
they fly off into the world.
Three weeks, gone in the blink of an eye.
Now as the decades went by,
I grew stronger and tougher.
After about 50 years, my
life in the shadows was over.
I had outlived my nurse tree.
Its canopy was gone and I,
I was ready to brave the sun.
The palo verde's legacy
was the protection it provided
and the precious water our roots shared.
The water I inherited
from it lived on in me.
Now I was big enough to cast my own shadow
perfect for freshening up in the morning
just in time for breakfast.
Bed and breakfast for squirrels,
my life as a cactus hotel had begun.
Desert iguanas can withstand intense heat
but always need shelters within reach.
Their check-in is purely a formality.
The first two arrivals,
but who's at the front
desk and who's the guest?
My front yard becomes the place to meet.
That has never changed.
See and be seen, and pretty
soon you get used to each other.
Now, gestures may vary between species
but a tail flick is universally understood,
this is my spot.
No cuts.
After they're done fighting
over the best seat in the
house, it's time to chill.
When my neighbors, the
cholla cacti shed their chutes,
my front yard turns
into a thorny minefield,
impossible for many
small visitors to cross.
But here in the desert,
we have guests who aren't
deterred by thorns or spikes,
the restless pack rat.
And like all pack rats,
this one has a plan.
The remains of my former nurse tree
offer the perfect framework
for it to build its new den.
A labyrinth of chambers
and escape route made to
measure a mini personal fortress.
The rattlesnake is just
as perplexed as the rat
but it doesn't strike.
It's settled down for an extended rest
and isn't in a hunting mood.
Oh, really?
The rat remains skeptical,
but decides to stick to her plan.
As a seasoned builder,
she gets to work doing what she does best,
packing and repacking.
She keeps her eyes open
for her favorite material,
cholla chutes,
which she hooks together
to form a wall of thorns,
and the snake is locked out.
Pack rats aren't picky.
They put to use everything they find.
In a single night,
the comfort of my palo verde is transformed
into a cozy new home for a pack rat.
Change can attract some curious creatures.
These quails are just out
of reach for the coyote.
But what about that rat?
He can scent there's someone
in there, but how to get it?
The rat's done good work.
Her fortress is impregnable.
The coyote's lost interest
and retreated back into the desert.
Since then,
the space under my old
palo verde has been inhabited
by generations of pack rats
with ever-changing tenants.
At the age of about a hundred,
my arms began to grow.
That was a time
when millions of people
were migrating to America.
Settlers found their way to my desert
and marveled at my size,
a giant saguaro cactus
close to 50 feet tall.
Like a candelabra, my
arms reached up to the sky.
My shadow stretched
further than ever before
inviting guests to come my way.
Generations of squirrels came
by for their daily sand bath
and others gathered around my trunk too.
So many different
guests visited and stayed.
My hotel had its very own reception area.
The front yard became a
meet and greet for travelers
from far and wide.
When thrashers turn up,
trouble is right around the corner.
It becomes a free for all.
And all that fuss in the
lobby attracts predators.
The quails keep a watchful eye.
Their alarm calls warn everyone.
And that bobcat is left
standing in the dust.
A rare guest enters my lobby.
This primeval dragon takes her sweet time.
A gila monster can reach 40 years of age,
outliving most other animals in the desert.
Most of the time,
this venomous lizard only
moves in search of food,
but her thick tail tells us
she's got enough fat stored
in there to survive the next few weeks.
Her usual home is the underworld.
For most of her life, the
gila monster remains hidden
from the light of day.
Here in a small borough
at the end of my roots,
the female has deposited her treasure.
This well protected air conditioned spot
offers the perfect conditions for her eggs.
It takes three long months
for the young to mature and hatch.
It takes up to two days
for them to scramble free.
The first and probably
the only strenuous act
in their laid back life of minimal effort.
In their first weeks, they
don't need to eat anything.
They can survive on what
they brought with them
from the egg.
And even after hatching,
they still remain underground for months.
It's some time before they
venture out into the light.
Deep down at the lowest
levels of my labyrinth of roots,
there's a very special hotel storeroom
watched over, defended,
and tended to by a giant army.
Some of these ant's
abdomens are filled to bursting.
They're called repletes
and they're carrying a kind of liquid gold.
They're fed by their sisters
until they can barely take another step.
With their bloated bellies,
they're no longer suited
for life on the ground.
They hang motionless from the ceiling
and look like tiny honey pots.
The honey pot ants create
a valuable storage system.
When food is short, the repletes
share these syrupy reserves
with the other colony members.
Life insurance for a whole city,
a wondrous honey factory
in the vaults of my tangled hotel basement.
The best years of my life began
just as you humans were
on the edge of the abyss,
waging two world wars.
That's when my arms grew into a crown
and I became a majestic
multi branched skyscraper,
ready for anyone looking
for a home in the desert.
It didn't take long and
the first suite was occupied,
and not just by anyone,
but by America's largest owl.
Great horned owls need a good vantage point
and my upper floors provided
an ideal panoramic view.
They didn't come every year
but one season there was
a swarm of pack rats here
and the owls raised four
little owlets on my arms.
Their parents had no trouble
providing for their offspring.
Over 200 rats disappeared
into those little owl tummies
during their 10 week stay.
A year later and a little higher up,
I had my first experience
of unexpected renovations.
Only a woodpecker is strong enough
to break through my wax and skin,
and this one has a motive too.
The lady over him has high standards,
and his new home is not yet up to scratch.
One glance up and the message is clear,
you get back to work.
She even shows him how.
An inspection follows.
Hmm, not quite.
He moves on to another arm,
another inspection, and still not happy,
working overtime.
At last, the misses approves.
Gila woodpeckers have a lot of stamina.
Year after year, they
build a new nest cavity
creating ever greater living space.
So my hotel has more and more rooms
and vacancies are filled immediately.
New guests are lining up all the time.
The woodpeckers make
sure it's always high season.
Fly catchers prefer a home in the attic.
Sparrows can be found on my right arm
and just one floor down,
the smallest of all owls,
the elf owl has its own branch.
In no time, I upgraded from
a two star bed and breakfast
to an exclusive resort with
several luxurious towers
scratched up, dug under, hollowed out,
and always fully booked.
Word spreads quickly.
If the front desk is left unattended,
the gopher snake can slip past
all the way up to the apartment floors
and not even my thorns can
keep this scaly predator away.
Up it slithers.
This is extreme climbing.
It's been spotted
but the warning calls
don't phase the snake.
Gopher snakes are feared nest robbers,
slithering silently towards their prey
to strike at lightning speed.
But this room is vacant.
The reptile isn't on the hunt.
With her sixth sense,
she can feel a change
in the weather coming.
Only once in my lifetime,
I remember it like it was yesterday,
a strange, cold, white rain fell,
snow.
Cold crept into my pores.
Crystals sharp as my thorns
scratched at my vessels and waterways.
The whole ordeal lasted just a few hours
and never before had I longed
so desperately for the sun,
and by late morning it was over.
But from that day on around 30 years ago,
I was forever changed.
In the desert, things often
spring to life quite suddenly,
bees swarmed over my lobby.
Out of nowhere,
hundreds of them suddenly
buzzing up out of the ground,
digger bees.
Green-eyed drones comb the ground
in hopes of finding a mate.
They're there somewhere hidden in the sand.
Once they pick up a scent,
there's no stopping them.
There they are.
Females with bright red
eyes appear from below.
Not all drones get lucky,
and the ones that do get just one chance.
No time to whine and dine.
After mating,
it's time for the females
to do some digging.
They bury themselves in the sand
while the males having
given it all they've got
just turn over and die.
Only the red-eyed females still swarm
as each digs her own private tunnel
and deposits her eggs at the end of it.
When the entrances lie too close together,
there are squabbles.
Despite their shared mating ritual,
digger bees remain solitary creatures.
Then after a few days,
everything returns to normal.
The bees disappear as
suddenly as they came.
And so the years went
by filled with sunshine,
shade, and desert winds.
The constant underground
tunneling of ants, bees,
and gila monsters slowly took their toll
riddling my foundations.
And when the wind jostled
me above, my roots ached,
time to think about the future.
It happened for the first time
on a balmy spring night 150 years ago.
I blossomed.
My flowers open only
in the cool of the night.
They rely on specialists.
For the pollination to be successful,
I need help from the local nightlife,
lesser long nosed bats.
The heady scent of my
nectar lures them over
and they dive in headfirst
coating themselves in my pollen
which they then carry off
with them far beyond my reach.
They've gotta get on with it,
for the chalice of
seduction has a time limit.
In just a few hours,
my blossoms will close.
But come next morning,
they still look stunning.
And my rooftop bar opens
early, free nectar for all.
Sugar crazy honeybees
are the first to come by
and take a sip,
closely followed by an
armada of six legged patrons.
The perfume of my flowers
attracts hundreds of tiny visitors
from far and wide rejoicing
at my well-stocked rooftop bar.
Then the big ones wake
up and join the party,
rushing to find a spot
before it's too late,
plucking and quaffing as
if there were no tomorrow.
In return,
all the out-of-towners
get a load of my pollen.
At some point, it becomes almost impossible
to find a bee-free flagging.
Before they can dip their beaks,
those pesky bees have got to go.
Even with plenty of nectar to go around,
some guests just want
to hog it all for themselves.
Collateral damage is unavoidable.
But at my hotel nothing goes to waste,
even guests on the ground
floor get their money's worth.
Anything that comes crashing
down from the rooftop bar
lands right in front of
the squirrels, jackpot.
But here comes some other competitors,
so eat it up fast that carpel and pollen.
The javelina are perfectly content
with the leftover husks.
Every year, the monsoon comes
and dark clouds cover the sky.
It marks the beginning
of a difficult time for me.
The desert needs water.
I need water.
But these thunderstorms
are fierce and dangerous.
For us plants, there's no escape.
Flash floods wash away the soil
that covers my roots and
anything else in their way.
If you happen to be
growing in the wrong place,
you don't have a chance.
Once the deluge is passed,
anything still standing
breathes a sigh of relief.
I was lucky, my lobby was flooded,
but my guests gained a pool.
Everyone is welcome here, day trippers too.
And most of the time,
peace prevails until...
This pool is mine now,
he makes that very clear.
That means you.
And you too.
Curve billed thrashers
have a broad definition
of personal territory
and a pool in the hot
desert definitely fits the bill.
Ah, but wait.
This spiny lizard has chosen
the pool as his hunting ground.
Hmm, that hunter's too
good for his own good,
outta here.
Now these bees are all mine.
Pretty impressive.
Could this be the start
of a beautiful friendship?
The pool area is now a spa for everyone,
but the pool party gets cut short.
Now it's the big guy's turn.
In these parts,
you'll only find water
after a heavy rainfall.
But once they've had they're fun,
there's nothing left but a mud bath.
So drink first.
There is not a hog in the world
doesn't dream of a messy
wallow, however tiny the tub.
Unbeknownst to the javelina,
their bathtub has a secret drain.
My roots are some of the most
powerful in the plant kingdom,
absorbing water at high speed,
sucking it up into my trunk
before it can seep away or evaporate.
By sunset, my reserves
are fully replenished.
I've got enough to keep
me going for well over a year.
And a small puddle still remains
for thirsty late night passers by.
This coyote is wary of coming too close.
Why?
An armada of red spotted toads
has occupied the basin.
Appearing out of nowhere,
this clan has gathered in the water.
They've been waiting for
a year between my roots.
Now they're in ecstasy.
They only have just a
few nights to court, mate,
and lay eggs, the whole shebang.
Thirsty onlookers gawk and hesitate.
There's a definite hint
of toad poison here.
Better call it a night.
Bobcats may be fearless
hunters, but they are no fools.
He won't come anywhere near
these hotheaded cold-blooded amphibians.
A tactical retreat into the desert night.
For a few nocturnal hours,
the toads are in charge here.
Their time is running out though.
My roots are relentless,
absorbing almost all
the water from the pool,
soon there'll be nothing left.
In the monsoon season,
I can take on more than a ton of water,
perfect for a juicy harvest.
The sweet pulp of my fruit is
the super food of the Sonoran Desert,
drawing once again a rash of visitors.
And so they all come,
the birds and the bees, predators and prey.
Nobody can resist this
last tasty temptation.
They feast and indulge and as a byproduct,
carry millions of seeds
with the juicy fruit flesh
all over the desert.
And here the circle closes.
I spent two centuries
in the most beautiful desert in the world,
but time has taken its toll.
My thorns are falling,
small cracks have become deep furrows,
wounds that won't heal.
My life's elixir seeps away into the sand.
My guests are long gone, my hotel silent,
only the wind remains
incessantly buffeting my arms.
My foundation is eroded, porous.
The last pages of my memoirs are written.
After 200 years of
growing, thriving, and decay,
my end comes suddenly and unequivocally.
My life passed in slow
motion, as will my death.
A few more years and I'll be history.
I was, as you humans
would say, a Methuselah,
an old cactus hotel.
My guests eroded my roots, hollowed me out,
and tore at my trunk.
Undoubtedly, they hastened my demise
but they also secured my legacy,
carrying millions upon
millions of tiny seeds out
into the desert.
Perhaps some of them will share my luck
and find themselves in the
shadow of a palo verde tree
just as I once did on
a balmy spring evening
over 200 years ago.
I'm living down this road
I'm living down this road
A burn of scars in my soul
In my soul
Love is furious and fast
Love is furious and fast
I've dealt with the demons in my past
In my past
This road's gonna take your soul
This road's gonna take your soul
But every dog knows there's a dawn
I won't walk this road alone
This road's gonna take your soul
This road's gonna take your soul
But every dog knows there's a dawn
I won't walk this road alone
I won't walk this road alone