lychee

the only thing you have to do, is die.

plants.

i planted two lychee seeds (pips) in a clear, cubic vase with two scoops of potting soil. the soil was sitting in a large plastic bag, folded over, on one corner of the deck. i couldn't remember the last time i had intentionally touched dirt, or touched it with the intention of putting it to use. i felt like i was freeing some kind of black but wholesome magic from a rubber body bag. dirt, soil, in a bag, kept in the corner.

i filled the vase, pressed the soil down and was reminded of tamping espresso. manipulating earth, pressing natural matter into itself for a desired affect felt a lot like praying for the first time in years. pushing dirt into a vase evoked tactile memories -- hands pressing clay, plunging into barrels of dried legumes, smearing red clay on my chest. dirt -- even the kind that comes premixed and aerated -- is a kind of mana ingredient like blood and anything with potential energy -- a womb for life, an egg, chlorophyll. it is nothing and everything, common and miraculous, filthy and sanctifying, dark and magical.

i stopped. i can't plant these seeds without reading a how to. i need to google "planting lychee seeds" before i continue. spliced into my dirt euphoria was this idea of not knowing how to plant seeds, an awareness of how long it had been since i'd purposely touched dirt paired with the shock of not really knowing how to plant a seed. was the seed too dry? should i soak it first, suspend it with toothpicks in a glass filled with water and set to bake in a windowsill? had i waited too long between the time i pulled the seed from the lychee and now, and what about this pot, was it the right shape and size? anxieties that would rattle ancestral chains and made me wonder if basic respiration would someday require directions.

instead, i pressed a forefinger near the center of the vase -- just deep enough to leave an inch above and below the tips of the seeds. i guessed which end should go up and which end would sprout roots. i had no knowledge of lychees, their seeds, or basic horticultural experience aside from sprouting beans in first grade. what i knew about them came from picking them up at chinatown stalls on canal street in a blue plastic bag that said 'thank you' at least a dozen times. from mantle to core, lychee anatomy begins with a hot pink geometric helmet, a pale membrane, and a phallic layer of middle jelly around a mahogany seed. the seed is ornamental, something that should be kept and not discarded.

i dropped the seeds in the holes and covered them with dirt.


curiosity ensued.

i googled it.

several variations on planting lychee seeds -- water the soil, don't water the soil (water the gravel beneath the soil), give it plenty of air to breathe, choke it with saran wrap and rubber bands, high humidity, low humidity, full sunlight, cool dark and damp.

my lychee-planting method -- however ill-conceived or unresearched -- followed intution and best guessery. before this morning and several thousand mornings before it, someone had to guess which end goes up, how much sunlight is necessary and whether to water the soil or the gravel long before the days of saran wrap, rubber bands or google. maybe ignorance is the new final frontier.