Daryl Hanna

I was with Daryl Hannah by her swimming pool on a tropic (synthetic) LA night. Daryl was a horse-faced exotic bird with long relaxing hair, her body under the limey light glowed and suggested caresses. She was compelling in a plastic and pleasant way. I felt naughty and frightened. We were jumping from topic to topic with a false omniscient air, derogatory. I was touching her face and hands and arms and I looked at my arms in the greeney, moony light. There was a festival in the distance. Was she going to make love to me? All the guests had left. Then a small child, like the one in Blue Hawaii, came up pretending to be a fawn (fawner?) and plopped a handful of marine paint on Daryl’s bare chest. Then Daryl’s daughter (?) (the children were all mulatto and bare-chested, oiled up) threw a handful of Homeric green paint at her. Then a black woman threw bright red at Daryl. Daryl was laughing, and she was suddenly wearing my bathing suit, and she had forgotten about me. Finally the fawn came at me and I threatened him. His mother saw this and she was disturbed. She goaded her child on. I wondered – should I drench the little terror with the real open can of house paint I have on the table? [their paint was play paint, mine was real paint] And then I am suddenly globbed. I want to strike the boy, and then beat and smack his mother, and rape her, but I think this is going too far, what am I thinking, I have been reading too much Ovid. I woke up furious thinking that just because they threw paint at Daryl they thought they could throw paint at me. But I was an afterthought. I felt guilty, like a criminal, for wanting to rape the woman, and a terrible feeling of having missed an opportunity to get to know Daryl.