I grab nostalgia in a death grip. I slam it in my writing. I have no choice. When I’m not writing, I go mad. When I am not involved with photography, I go mad. When I don’t have either one, I shut down. I rock. I become catatonic. Nostalgia is the bedrock of what I do. It is my war with dementia. It is my suicide scars. It saves me. To know that the Land of Odd is still there to escape to. No loud sounds. No putting my hands over my ears to scream. To drown out the Great Machine. The trucks. The cities. The backing up beeps. The land of odd is peace. There is no government because we value one another. We have not cut down the trees. We grow our own food. We are never hungry. There is no Internet. I am not writing this. I do not have keys to lose. The Land of Odd is a past that never was. In the Land of Odd, capitalism is just another loser idea. There is no slavery. The land of odd is where I hide. It is a cave. Struggling to exist. Those of us in the Land of Odd, know fully well we are more than twisted. We are the Pariah. You cannot visit where we live. Nostagia is the abuser. The whip marks on my back. It is the cigarette burns on my breasts. It is being thrown into farm machinery and being impaled. It is regret. It is erasure. The soft abyss of contemplation. To see my abuser as my second self. To embrace my rapist. We are friends. He never hurts me and never will. He holds me. Just because. In the Land of Odd, there is no Land of Odd. Just us. Remembering. Holding on.