28 July - Icleand return

I don't remember a thing of what I may have wanted to say upon returning from iceland (I'm revisiting this draft post nearly 2 months later). Perhaps I wanted to warn people not to get on little icelandic hroses because they can be lethal despite their size. They didn't kill my famous friend the icelandic poet and novelist but the horse that threw him left him in agony since we were nowhere near a hospital and since I write two months later he's finally out of his cast and trying hard to regain full use of his hand. He says he will just mount bipeds from now on.

Or perhaps I wanted to record that Bjork has a stuffed puffin by an upstairs/kitchen window of her black house? or relate stories of famous poet's almost famous daughter who has entered politics? or that next year Toph plans to go to the Western Fjiords beloved of Viggo Mortensen and I have 3 g/friends he can travel with, all obsessed with Iceland? or perhaps I wanted to describe puffin night back in London where assorted friends drank Brennevin and ate smoked puffin? I took a bite and it seemed very like speck to me, not that I can be sure since not tasted speck since probably 1982.
I'll never know because it's all lost in my memory gaps.