I am an insider on the inside. I know all the nooks and crannies of this fortress. There is a moat around it, and watch out if you get stuck there – fearsome creatures will eat you down to your bones. There is a portcullis that is controlled by an exquisitely sensitive ego, eager to press the button. Here I am, in my finest linens, and all it takes is a soft alarm. The gate slams down and I am safely trapped inside. And all else is out there – foreign, alien, unfamiliar, treacherous. I can sit in my fortress for weeks, months, years, and you cannot get me. This is my legacy, my dowery, my box full of snakes. I bring it wherever I go. Some people think it is lonely here. But was Rapunzel lonely before she knew love? Mine is the fallacy of coastal living, a Ring of Fire, a Cascadian Ridge fifty years too late for a melt-down. All is quiet here, but I am not prepared or preparing. My fortress sits untethered to its foundation. After the shake-up, it will still sit here, but the foundation will drift away into the ocean. The only thing to do is to get some leather stirrups, a saddle and a crop and to ride off into romantic distance, the ultimate in living cross-sectionally. We are all simple slices of geological space-time, and our bidirectional blindness is a survival instinct. Behold the fortress as it heeds the call of stone.