Chapter 1 — The Quest
I am Nuo, the Unbegun
the silence before stars learned to burn.
And thus begins another Wandering of the Unbegun.
Except
not quite.
The council pauses.
Children.
This one is different.
This is an old wandering.
An ancient file recovered from somewhere beneath several layers of questionable decisions.
Goa.
Years ago.
Before Kasol.
Before Rishikesh.
Before the road became medicine.
Before I learned that sometimes movement could make the weight lighter.
Before I learned that sometimes stillness could do the same.
Before I even understood that I was wandering at all.
The council leans forward.
Because back then,
I wasn’t the Unbegun.
Not yet.
There was no Archivist.
No crow collecting relics from every road.
No sacred rule against maps.
No council observing my decisions with increasing disappointment.
The council objects.
Children.
You existed spiritually.
You simply lacked formal organization.
Now.
There is one more important difference.
This wandering was not solo.
The council gasps.
Companions?
Two.
One already lived in Goa.
Kosmo.
The council nods.
And the other traveled there with me.
Paul.
Now.
If you have read the later Wanderings,
you might expect some grand reason for departure.
Perhaps sadness.
Perhaps the weight had returned.
Perhaps home had become too small.
Perhaps a cryptid stared dramatically toward the horizon and whispered:
I must wander.
The council prepares itself.
No.
We wanted drugs.
The council falls silent.
Correct.
Children.
There was no hidden ache.
No grand search for meaning.
No spiritual crisis.
No desperate attempt to breathe.
We simply wanted to get high.
The council erupts.
A PURE QUEST.
Precisely.
You see,
this was before the Unbegun developed what we shall generously refer to as:
self control.
The council raises an eyebrow.
Some self control.
Silence.
We are discussing relative improvement.
Children.
Back then,
I was a junkie.
Not the romantic traveler version.
Not the:
“I occasionally partake in agriculture while wandering”
version you know now.
No.
My philosophy was considerably simpler.
Substance exists.
Substance alters consciousness.
Consume substance.
The council writes this down.
A sophisticated worldview.
One goal.
One objective.
One desire.
Enter altered state of mind.
Stay there if possible.
The council nods grimly.
Now.
At this point in my illustrious career of chemical curiosity,
I had experience.
Pot?
Yes.
Booze?
Certainly.
The council sighs.
Frequently.
But there remained one particular substance I had never tried.
LSD.
The council leans forward.
Children.
I had heard stories.
Colors.
Patterns.
Reality melting.
Entire universes appearing behind closed eyelids.
People discovering God.
People becoming furniture.
The usual testimonials.
Naturally,
I wanted in.
The council collapses.
And Kosmo,
our man already stationed in Goa,
made a promise.
He could get it.
The council grows interested.
The product.
The mythical little square.
The gateway.
Children.
Quest acquired.
GOA.
Objective:
Acquire LSD.
Secondary Objective:
Survive whatever happens afterward.
The council pauses.
Was that actually an objective at the time?
No.
That one has been added retrospectively by management.
Now.
With the mission established,
a problem emerged.
Travel.
The council groans.
Children.
You know me now as a man who refuses maps,
follows dogs through unfamiliar cities,
boards vehicles based on gestures,
and occasionally entrusts transportation to teenagers.
But understand something.
Back then?
I was worse.
The council becomes horrified.
I had no sense of direction.
None.
If you placed me somewhere unfamiliar,
turned me around twice,
and asked where north was,
I might point toward the floor.
Common sense?
Also limited.
Planning ability?
The council looks around.
Missing.
Fortunately,
Paul existed.
The council cheers.
Paul possessed several abilities I did not.
Navigation.
Organization.
The capacity to understand where things were.
Perhaps even basic adulthood.
Children.
To me,
this made him essentially supernatural.
And so I developed a system.
Paul says:
“Let’s go.”
I go.
Paul says:
“Stop.”
I stop.
Paul turns left.
I turn left.
Paul walks confidently into a building.
I assume the building is relevant and follow.
The council applauds.
Human GPS acquired.
Did I know where we were going?
Not necessarily.
Did I know how we were getting there?
Rarely.
Was I concerned?
Absolutely not.
Children.
I trusted this man with my life.
Literally.
Not in the poetic sense.
In the:
“If Paul accidentally boards a bus to another state, I will discover this only after arrival”
sense.
The council nods.
Total delegation.
Now.
The pilgrimage required transportation.
Paul handled it.
Naturally.
He booked the bus.
Chose whatever needed choosing.
Read whatever needed reading.
Managed whatever hidden administrative rituals occur when competent people arrange travel.
And I?
The council waits.
I existed nearby.
The council erupts.
Contribution?
Moral support.
Did Paul request moral support?
No.
Was I providing it visibly?
Also no.
Children.
I was essentially decorative luggage.
A companion shaped object waiting to be transported toward Goa.
The council writes:
Role — Passenger.
Secondary Role — Liability.
Accurate.
Now.
There is something strange about remembering this version of myself.
The council grows quiet.
Because when I look backward from here,
from all the roads that came later,
I can recognize pieces.
Tiny fragments.
Things that would eventually become rituals.
The willingness to leave.
The attraction toward uncertainty.
The complete dependence on whoever appeared to know where they were going.
The profound absence of survival instincts.
The council nods.
Some traditions are ancient.
But I didn’t know any of that yet.
There was no mythology.
No wandering philosophy.
No realization that roads could change you.
Goa wasn’t a doorway.
Not to me.
It wasn’t freedom.
It wasn’t healing.
It wasn’t a chapter of life disguised as a location.
Children.
It was where the acid was.
The council applauds.
A humble beginning.
And so,
ticket booked,
Paul carrying approximately the entire logistical burden,
Kosmo waiting somewhere in Goa with promises of chemically enhanced enlightenment,
and me contributing the strategic value of a houseplant,
the journey began.
The council leans forward.
Not the Wanderings of the Unbegun.
Not yet.
Just three idiots.
One destination.
And a very specific shopping list.
Thus concludes Chapter One.
Before The Unbegun.
Kosmo.
Paul.
And The Pilgrimage For Acid.
Children.
Years later,
I would board trains because I needed to escape the weight in my chest.
I would follow dogs because maps felt too certain.
I would sit beside rivers and discover that sometimes doing nothing was the entire point.
But this boy?
He knew none of that.
He wasn’t searching for himself.
He wasn’t trying to become lighter.
He wasn’t looking for meaning.
He wanted LSD.
And Paul had booked the bus.
The council nods solemnly.
Every mythology deserves an origin story.
Unfortunately,
mine begins with me standing beside a competent friend,
providing absolutely no visible use,
waiting to be transported toward drugs.
