To scrutinize and expose

Karma, or fate, does indeed work. Charles Wallace has a really bad cold now. He's been on cough medicine all day.
Emily Dickinson wrote about seeing a soul at the white heat, but I actually haven't seen one until this afternoon. Mirabell is on a mission, and taking us all with him. I'm not sure what the mission is, but there must be some reason why Birnam Wood is muttering, "Never get off the boat." The man's been on a Stanislavsky tear. During Act I, he stopped the action and said, "This still isn't working. Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, this isn't working. Macbeth, you have the presence of a pressed wood bookshelf, and Lady Macbeth, if we had scenery, you would have consumed it by now. Zandra, acting isn't like spackling. You can't spread it around to make it even out." Macbeth and I backed away from each other. "JEREMY! Can you light these two to make it seem like they actually like each other?" The rest continued like this. "APRIL: FASTER AND MORE INTENSE!" "Make that Porter drunk! Jeremy--check that lighting!" "I want to see those plants LIVE--Birnam Wood, I'm talking to you!" Luckily I was dead by the time my mother called to tell me she was on duty again tonight, and to ask that I'd make sure Charles Wallace used his inhaler. Duncan's been really nervous all day about the play, so he came over tonight to rehearse. He brought me the darkest red roses I've ever seen: they look like blood, and are wonderful. I'm nervous too: my mother will be there, and she said that my father, depending on the tax returns, might be there too. This is certainly much bigger than when I played Child Number Two in "The Pied Piper of Hamlin" in Grade Three.