Gagne ton ciel de Mathieu Denis

BANDE ANNONCE

Gagne ton ciel n’est pas seulement le récit d’une chute individuelle. C’est un miroir tendu à nos sociétéscontemporaines, saturées d’images de réussite, d’injonctions à posséder davantage et d’un imaginaire collectif où la valeur d’un individu se mesure moins à ce qu’il est qu’à ce qu’il affiche. En suivant la descente aux enfers de Nacer Belkacem (Samir Guesmi),  Mathieu Denis signe un film d’une lucidité troublante, qui interroge frontalement notre rapport à l’argent, au regard des autres et à l’illusion d’une réussite toujours repoussée.

À première vue, Nacer incarne une réussite tranquille, presque banale. Une maison confortable en banlieue, une famille aimante, un emploi stable, une implication sociale réelle. Ce portrait pourrait suffire à définir une vie accomplie. Mais Gagne ton ciel commence précisément là où cette définition échoue. À l’aube de ses 50 ans, Nacer ressent un vertige : celui de n’avoir pas « assez ». Pas assez d’argent, pas assez de reconnaissance, pas assez de signes visibles attestant qu’il a vraiment réussi. Ce manque n’est pas matériel au sens strict ; il est symbolique. Il naît dans la comparaison, dans le frottement quotidien avec un monde où la richesse n’est plus seulement un moyen, mais un langage, un marqueur identitaire.

Le film montre avec une finesse implacable comment cette insatisfaction s’insinue dans les interstices du quotidien. Les parents riches de l’école privée, les conversations anodines qui deviennent autant de rappels de ce qu’il n’a pas, les refus professionnels vécus comme des humiliations existentielles. Rien n’est spectaculaire au départ. C’est précisément ce qui rend la trajectoire de Nacer si crédible : sa chute ne commence pas par un crime ou un scandale, mais par une pensée persistante, presque raisonnable en apparence — je mérite mieux. Dans un monde qui célèbre sans cesse l’ambition et la performance, cette pensée n’a rien d’anormal. Elle est même encouragée.

C’est là que Gagne ton ciel devient profondément contemporain. Nous vivons entourés de richesses inimaginables, exposés quotidiennement, par les réseaux sociaux, la publicité et les discours économiques, à des standards de vie hors de portée pour la majorité. Cette abondance visible ne rend pas plus riches ; elle rend plus pauvres symboliquement. Elle crée un décalage permanent entre ce que l’on possède et ce que l’on croit devoir posséder pour exister pleinement aux yeux des autres. Nacer n’est pas écrasé par la misère, mais par la comparaison. Il n’est pas victime d’un manque objectif, mais d’un excès de modèles inaccessibles.

Le génie du film réside dans son refus de juger frontalement son personnage. Nacer n’est ni un monstre ni une caricature. Il est un homme ordinaire pris dans un engrenage qu’il ne maîtrise plus. Son silence, notamment vis-à-vis de sa femme et de ses proches, est l’un des éléments les plus tragiques du récit. Non parce qu’il est cruel, mais parce qu’il est prisonnier de son ego. Avouer ses difficultés serait reconnaître un échec, et dans l’univers mental qu’il s’est construit, l’échec n’a pas droit de cité. Le film montre ainsi comment le culte de la réussite matérielle isole, empêche la parole et transforme les relations humaines en surfaces à préserver plutôt qu’en refuges.

La métaphore des sables mouvants, évoquée par le cinéaste, traverse tout le film. Nacer avance sans cesse, convaincu que l’immobilité équivaut à la mort sociale. Pourtant, chaque pas l’enfonce davantage. Cette fuite en avant est emblématique d’un système économique et culturel qui valorise l’action, la prise de risque et la croissance permanente, même lorsque celles-ci conduisent à l’autodestruction. Gagne ton ciel pose alors une question essentielle : que se passe-t-il lorsque la seule valeur reconnue devient l’accumulation ? Que reste-t-il de l’individu lorsque tout ce qui ne se mesure pas en chiffres est relégué au second plan ?

La dimension tragique du film, souvent comparée à celle d’une tragédie grecque, ne tient pas seulement à l’issue inéluctable du récit, mais à l’aveuglement du héros. Comme les figures antiques, Nacer est persuadé de son bon droit, convaincu que ses choix, aussi risqués soient-ils, sont nécessaires. Sa chute n’est pas provoquée par une fatalité extérieure, mais par une vision du monde qu’il a intégrée sans la remettre en question. En cela, il est moins un individu défaillant qu’un symptôme.

                          

La mise en scène de Mathieu Denis épouse cette logique avec sobriété. Le suspense ne repose pas sur des rebondissements spectaculaires, mais sur une tension morale constante. Le spectateur sait, presque dès le départ, que l’issue sera sombre. Ce qui importe, ce n’est pas le quoi, mais le comment. Comment un homme aimant peut-il en venir à sacrifier ce qu’il a de plus précieux ? Comment une quête de reconnaissance peut-elle effacer progressivement toute autre forme de valeur ?

Dans un monde contemporain où l’on nous répète qu’il faut « repartir la machine » coûte que coûte, Gagne ton ciel agit comme un contre-discours nécessaire. Il rappelle que la machine, lorsqu’elle devient une fin en soi, broie ceux qui n’arrivent pas à suivre son rythme effréné. Le film ne propose pas de solution simple, ni de morale rassurante. Il se contente — et c’est déjà immense — de poser la question qui dérange : où essayons-nous d’aller, exactement ?

En ce sens, Gagne ton ciel est un film profondément politique, même s’il ne brandit aucun slogan. Il parle de nous, de nos silences, de nos frustrations et de nos compromissions quotidiennes. Il montre que la véritable pauvreté n’est pas toujours celle que l’on croit, et que l’abondance matérielle, lorsqu’elle devient un horizon exclusif, peut se transformer en désert intérieur.

À la sortie de la projection, une impression persiste : celle d’avoir assisté non pas à une fiction éloignée de notre réalité, mais à une variation possible de nos propres trajectoires. Gagne ton ciel ne condamne pas le désir de mieux vivre ; il met en garde contre l’oubli de ce qui fait qu’une vie vaut la peine d’être vécue. Et c’est précisément dans cette tension, entre aspiration légitime et dérive destructrice, que le film trouve sa force, sa profondeur et sa brûlante pertinence.

LENA GHIO   

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BLACK HISTORY MONTH 2026 : Together, Let's Raise Our Voices

 

www.moishistoiredesnoirs.com

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Here in Montreal, Black History Month has always been more than a date on the calendar. It is a living, breathing space for memory, creation, resistance, and joy—one that grows richer each year through the voices of those who shape it. In 2026, that space opens wider than ever before. As the city gathers to mark the 35th edition of Black History Month, the celebrations take on a resonance that is both historic and forward-looking, grounded in remembrance yet boldly oriented toward the future. This year is not simply another chapter; it is a moment of collective affirmation.

schedule of activities

The 2026 edition unfolds at a remarkable crossroads. It marks the 35th anniversary of the Round Table on Black History Month, a century since Black History Month first emerged as a movement of recognition and education, and the 15th anniversary of the official logo that has come to symbolize this shared commitment. These milestones converge to remind us why Black History Month continues to matter. At a time when struggles for equity persist and narratives are increasingly fragmented, Black History Month stands as a vital force—one that insists on truth, honors complexity, and calls communities together long after February has passed.

The theme chosen for this anniversary year, Together, let’s raise our voices, captures the spirit of the moment with clarity and urgency. It is both an invitation and a declaration. To raise one’s voice is to claim space, to speak memory into the present, to transform silence into resonance. To do so together is to recognize that Black histories are not isolated stories but collective ones—woven into the social, cultural, political, and artistic fabric of Quebec. In 2026, raising our voices means amplifying plural identities, bridging generations, and shaping a future rooted in solidarity rather than erasure.

This vision is powerfully embodied in the official poster designed by artist Williamson Dulcé. In a vibrant and abstract composition, silhouettes gather around a central fire, evoking warmth, transmission, and shared humanity. The fire becomes a symbol of continuity—of stories told and retold, of resistance that illuminates rather than consumes. From this circle, voices rise and travel outward in every direction, suggesting both local grounding and global reach. The artwork pays homage to the historical and cultural richness of Black communities while encouraging reflection on their enduring impact. It is an image that does not ask for permission to be seen or heard; it insists.

Spokesperson Tamara Angeline Medford-Williams

The spokespeople for Black History Month 2026 further embody this insistence on agency, dialogue, and pride. On the Francophone side, artist, activist, and radio host Hubert-Mary Cherenfant, widely known as Dice B., brings a powerful conviction to the role. His work and voice are rooted in the belief that Afro-descendant people must be the authors of their own histories—free to affirm their multiplicity and celebrate the depth of a shared heritage without compromise. In the Anglophone community, Tamara Angeline Medford-Williams serves as a unifying presence. As a leader in community initiatives, education, and advocacy, she is deeply committed to highlighting the stories of Black, African, and Caribbean communities while fostering understanding, collective pride, and meaningful connection across differences.

Central to the Month’s programming is a renewed spotlight on individuals whose lives and work have shaped Quebec society in lasting ways. Through its annual free calendar, the Round Table honors twelve laureates whose paths reflect the diversity and brilliance of Black contributions across education, culture, public service, health, entrepreneurship, and the arts. Photographed by Montreal artist Qauffee, these portraits capture more than likeness—they reflect legacy.

Spokesperson Dice B

The 2026 laureates include educators such as Alix Adrien, journalists and filmmakers like Nadine Alcindor, and historians such as Fred Anderson, whose role in the Sir George Williams affair remains a crucial chapter in Montreal’s social history. They also include contemporary changemakers: Will Baptiste’s advocacy for mental health and healthy masculinity; Latoya Belfon’s leadership in publishing and education; Dieudonné Ella Oyono’s influence in economic development and political life; Oluwanifemi Fagbohun’s innovation in ethical entrepreneurship; and Biba Tinga’s tireless work in advancing awareness and care for people living with sickle cell disease. Artists, musicians, youth leaders, and cultural organizers—Ali NDiaye (Webster), Constantine Greenaway, Christelle Onomo Lopes, and Cynthia Waithe among them—complete a constellation of voices that reflect both depth and breadth. Together, they tell a story of commitment, courage, and creativity.

Music, movement, and visual art play a central role in this year’s celebrations, offering spaces where emotion and history meet. From late January through February, Montreal’s major cultural venues resonate with performances that bridge eras and genres. Classical concerts at Salle Pierre-Mercure and Salle Bourgie highlight composers of African descent and contemporary creators, placing them firmly within the canon while challenging its boundaries. These evenings are not only performances but acts of recognition—moments where Black excellence in classical music is heard, felt, and celebrated.

Beyond concert halls, Black History Month 2026 embraces the joy of gathering and the importance of well-being. BLK WinterFest invites participants to experience winter differently, reclaiming outdoor spaces through shared adventure and care. Community initiatives such as the annual blood drive in partnership with Héma-Québec underscore the tangible, life-saving contributions Black communities continue to make, particularly in addressing health realities like sickle cell disease.

Africa’s presence is also deeply felt throughout the Month. Exhibitions such as The Body in Ritual challenge conventional perspectives by reimagining masks not as static artifacts but as living extensions of the body. The long-awaited return of Les Ballets Africains to Montreal—nearly six decades after their last visit—stands as a historic cultural moment, reconnecting audiences with rhythms, movements, and traditions that have shaped global performance.

Importantly, Black History Month 2026 reaches far beyond Montreal. Events across Quebec—from the Côte-Nord to Mauricie, from Trois-Rivières to Rouyn-Noranda—affirm that Black history is not confined to one city or one narrative. It is a shared inheritance, present in every region and enriched by local voices.

As Black History Month 2026 begins, Montreal is invited not only to attend but to listen, reflect, and speak. Together, let’s raise our voices is a call to remember that history lives through participation. By honoring the past, celebrating the present, and imagining the future side by side, this anniversary edition reaffirms a simple yet powerful truth: when voices rise together, they shape a more just, vibrant, and united society for all.

LENA GHIO   

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🔱 THE ALCHEMY OF RESISTANCE: DISMANTLING THE MONSTER'S SHADOW ♈

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

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In the shadow of a tyrant who wields the military as a personal tool of theft and terror, it is easy to succumb to the weight of fear. But history—and the stars—remind us that we are not the first to stand before a "monster."

Mahatma Gandhi was born with Neptune in Aries, the very transit the United States are about to enter. This placement represents the "Spiritual Warrior"—the fusion of Neptunian universal love with Arian courage. Gandhi, alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., proved that when a population moves with "Truth-Force," even the most heavily armed tyrant becomes a prisoner of his own illusions.

Here is an analysis of the current threat through the lens of their collective wisdom.

The Alchemy of Resistance: Dismantling the Monster

By the Light of Gandhi and King

The tyrant today believes he is launching a world-shaping war. He sees himself as a master of Pluto (power) and Mars (war). But he has forgotten the fundamental law of the universe that both Gandhi and King lived by: No man can rule another without the other’s consent. Even if that consent is extracted through fear, it remains a choice. When the choice is withdrawn, the tyrant’s throne—built on stolen wealth and the blood of the innocent—begins to dissolve into the Neptunian fog.

I. The Illusion of Brute Force

Gandhi taught that "Satyagraha" (Truth-Force) is not a passive tool for the weak, but a "militant nonviolence" for the brave. To the tyrant, the military is a solid wall. To the Satyagrahi, the military is a collection of human beings, each possessing a conscience that can be awakened.

The tyrant is currently sending troops to "threaten his own people." In the philosophy of Martin Luther King Jr., this is a moment of Self-Purification. Before the people can win the streets, they must win their own hearts. They must refuse to mirror the monster’s hatred. King argued that violence only multiplies violence, but nonviolence "shocks" the conscience of the oppressor’s enforcers.

When the "shame" of the tyrant—his pedophilia—is brought into the light, it acts as a spiritual solvent. A soldier may find "glory" in a nationalist war, but there is no glory in defending a predator of children. By focusing on this specific truth, the people do not need to fight the military; they need to awaken the military to the fact that they are guarding a plague.

"In a gentle way, you can shake the world." - Mahatma Gandhi The Salt March

II. The Sovereignty of the Soil (Swaraj)

Gandhi’s concept of Swaraj (self-rule) is particularly relevant to the oncoming Neptune in Aries transit through the United States’s 4th house (the home and the land). The tyrant is obsessed with robbing the country’s wealth. Swaraj teaches that true wealth is not in the banks he is looting, but in the local community’s ability to sustain itself.

The tyrant’s cohorts are like a rodent and insect invasion, the parasites eating the nation’s foundation. Gandhi’s response would be Swadeshi: a return to the local. If the people stop using the tyrant’s banks, stop buying his taxed goods, and instead build a decentralized "shadow economy" of mutual aid, the tyrant becomes a king of nothing. He cannot "rob" a country that refuses to use his currency.

III. Navigating the Neptunian Fog

The tyrant’s plan for a "World War" is a desperate attempt to use the Mars-Pluto energy to maintain control. But Neptune in Aries (the Spiritual Warrior) is the antidote. Neptune dissolves boundaries; it turns the solid into the ethereal.

Martin Luther King Jr. often spoke of the "Unescapable Network of Mutuality." He understood that we are all tied in a single garment of destiny. The tyrant wants to isolate the people, but the Sun and Mercury entering Aquarius (the sign of the collective) today signals the birth of a "Global Network of Conscience."

While the tyrant prepares for a 20th-century war of tanks and territories, the people are entering a 21st-century war of Identity and Truth. If the tyrant launches a war, he is attacking "The Other." But if the people successfully communicate that "We are All One," his soldiers will find that they are being ordered to shoot their own mirrors. This is the "Steam" of Neptune in Aries: it is a fire that does not burn, but it makes the battlefield so thick with truth that the tyrant’s weapons find no target.

IV. The Perspective of the "Monster"

We must remember why a man becomes a "monster" who robs his own people and hides a "shame" like pedophilia. In Gandhi’s eyes, such a man is the most pitiable of all. He is a man so disconnected from his own soul that he tries to fill the void with gold and the blood of the vulnerable.

His "World War" is not a sign of strength; it is a diversion. He is trying to set the world on fire so that no one notices the rot in his own basement. King taught that "the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." The tyrant is currently fighting against that bend. He is trying to break the arc, but he will only succeed in breaking himself against it.

V. The Path Forward: Be Like Water

The transits of January 20, 2026, show a peak of tension. The Moon square Uranus suggests a sudden, explosive realization among the public. This is the moment to move. Not with the "fire" of the tyrant—which he knows how to extinguish—but with the "water" of Neptune.

• Refuse Cooperation: Like the Salt March, find the one thing the tyrant needs (labor, taxes, or silence) and withdraw it completely.

• Expose the Shame: Sunlight is the only cure for the rot in the 4th house. The pedophilia is the "leak" in the tyrant’s plumbing. Do not hide it. Make it the only thing people see when they look at his face.

• Trust the Transit: The Neptune/Saturn conjunction in February is the "Great Reset." The tyrant’s "World Order" is a house built on sand. When the water rises, the house goes.

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Conclusion: The Victory of the Great Soul

The threats of the tyrant are loud, but they are hollow. He is a drug-addicted financial ally’s puppet and a prisoner of his own perversions. Gandhi and King did not have armies, but they had Satya (Truth).

As Neptune enters Aries, the country is being called to a "Hero’s Journey." You are not just surviving a renovation; you are gutting a corrupt temple so that a new one can be built. The "insects and rodents" are being flushed out by the rising tide of public consciousness.

The tyrant will fall not because he was defeated by a bigger army, but because he was out-lived by the truth. On January 21, as the Sun and Mercury settle into Aquarius, the "People’s Voice" will begin to resonate at a frequency that his walls cannot contain.

"First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win." — Mahatma Gandhi

LENA GHIO   

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It’s All Coming Back to Me Now by Vito Luprano

Vito Luprano and Céline Dion as they embark on a phenomenal journey of success.

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Vito Luprano’s It’s All Coming Back to Me Now arrives not as a victory lap, but as a reckoning. Fast-paced, candid, and emotionally unsettled, the book reads like a man finally allowing himself to tell his version of a story long dominated by larger-than-life figures and corporate narratives. It is not a polished myth of success, nor a confessional steeped in self-pity. Instead, Luprano offers a restless memoir shaped by ambition, proximity to greatness, and the lingering ache of having been essential yet ultimately expendable.

The book opens far from red carpets and recording studios, beginning in Bari, Italy, where Luprano was born into modest circumstances. These early chapters establish an important emotional baseline: hunger. Not merely financial hunger, but a hunger for movement, recognition, and escape. Luprano portrays himself as a young man driven less by entitlement than by instinct, propelled forward by curiosity and an unshakable belief that life could be larger than the one he inherited. This grounding gives credibility to the whirlwind that follows. When fame and power arrive, they do so in sharp contrast to the restraint of his beginnings.

At the center of the book is Luprano’s account of Céline Dion’s transformation from a visibly awkward, raw-talented teenager into a poised international superstar. These chapters are among the most compelling, not because they recycle well-known milestones, but because they focus on process rather than mythology. Luprano emphasizes evolution over destiny. Image, repertoire, presentation, confidence—nothing, he suggests, was inevitable. Choices were debated, risks were taken, and identities were shaped deliberately. His pride is evident, but it is not triumphalist; it is tinged with a quiet frustration that these contributions were later minimized or reassigned.

This frustration crystallizes in his depiction of René Angélil. Luprano does not deny Angélil’s brilliance or devotion to Dion, nor does he attempt to dismantle his legacy. Instead, he frames their relationship as one defined by tension, rivalry, and imbalance. The “push and pull” between them is presented as both creative and corrosive. Luprano believes Angélil unfairly claimed credit for decisions and transformations that were, at minimum, collaborative. What emerges is not a villainous caricature but a portrait of two powerful personalities operating in overlapping territory, where acknowledgment was currency and silence was strategy.

A good example of Céline Dion and René Angelil before the style redefinitions brought about by Vito Luprano who signed the duo to CBS records where he was an artistic director.

One of the book’s strengths is its refusal to simplify emotional outcomes. Luprano’s sense of betrayal is palpable, but it coexists with admiration, gratitude, and even lingering affection. His ultimate gratitude toward Céline Dion—expressed subtly but persistently—anchors the narrative. The decision to title each chapter after a song reinforces this emotional architecture. It is a structural homage, but also a reminder that music, more than people or institutions, is the constant thread through his life.

Luprano’s personal life is addressed with surprising bluntness. His three failed marriages are not explored for scandal, but as evidence of imbalance. Success, he suggests, did not ruin his relationships so much as distract him from tending them. These passages are spare and unsentimental, conveying regret without theatrics. The emotional throughline is absence: being physically present but psychologically elsewhere, always oriented toward the next project, the next crisis, the next negotiation.

The most jarring moment in the book comes with Luprano’s firing from Sony in 2009. He recounts this episode with genuine astonishment, portraying it as a rupture that shattered his sense of professional identity. The corporate logic behind the decision remains opaque, and perhaps that is the point. In an industry where loyalty is often rhetorical, Luprano confronts the reality that past success offers no immunity. His subsequent depression and feelings of betrayal are described plainly, without melodrama, lending these chapters an uncomfortable authenticity.

As I read the book it seemed clear to me that the tensions, the dynamics, the extraordinary talents of all three creators: René Angelil, Vito Luprano and especially Céline Dion, were all essential parts of the immeasurable success they brought to the world.

From 2012 onward, Luprano positions himself as an independent figure with Lupo One Productions, fully aware that his most influential years are behind him. This acknowledgment is one of the book’s most mature elements. Rather than chasing relevance, he reflects on legacy—what remains when proximity to power fades. There is melancholy here, but also clarity. Luprano no longer measures worth by charts or titles; instead, he measures it by memory, impact, and endurance.

One of the book’s quieter pleasures is its gallery of artists from music and cinema, many of whom have since passed away. These appearances are brief but evocative, functioning like snapshots rather than full biographies. They reinforce the book’s central theme: impermanence. Fame, relationships, institutions—all dissolve over time, leaving behind fragments that must be actively remembered if they are to survive.

Stylistically, It’s All Coming Back to Me Now favors momentum over depth. Chapters move quickly, sometimes at the expense of introspection. Readers seeking extensive psychological analysis or industry exposé may find themselves wanting more. Yet this speed feels intentional. The book mirrors the pace of the life it describes—always moving forward, rarely pausing long enough to heal. Beneath the brisk surface, however, there is a clear sense of deep emotional wounding, never fully articulated but consistently felt.

In the end, this memoir is less about settling scores than about reclaiming voice. Luprano does not ask for absolution, nor does he demand recognition. He simply insists on being part of the story as it is remembered. His final gesture of gratitude toward Céline Dion underscores this humility. Whatever conflicts existed, the music—and the journey it enabled—remains sacred.

It’s All Coming Back to Me Now is a compelling, imperfect, and honest account of a life lived adjacent to greatness. It reminds readers that history is rarely owned by a single narrator, and that behind every polished legend are contributors whose stories are still waiting to be told.

The book will be available on January 12, 2026 on Amazon.

All the images in this article are from archives found through Google searches.

LENA GHIO   

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The Winter of the Unbroken: A Manual for the Spiritual Insurgent

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The Winter of the Unbroken: A Manual for the Spiritual Insurgent

As the Sun crosses the threshold into the zero degree of Capricorn this December, it does not merely signal a change of seasons; it marks the descent of a cold, crystalline clarity upon the collective consciousness. For years, humanity has wandered through a Piscean fog—a Neptunian haze where the lines between protector and predator have been intentionally blurred. We find ourselves in an era where those who hold the levers of power have mastered the art of the digital mask, using the language of empathy to cloak the machinery of extraction. But the Solstice chart of 2025 carries a hidden promise. It is the chart of the strategist, the survivor, and the silent builder. It tells us that while the propaganda may be louder than ever, its foundation is beginning to crack under the weight of its own gravity.

The current astrological landscape is dominated by a heavy concentration of energy in Capricorn, the sign of the mountain goat that climbs through frozen terrain where others perish. With the Sun and Mars joined in this sign, the "Warrior Spirit" required for this age is not one of loud, performative outrage, but of iron-clad discipline and profound emotional restraint. This is the Way of the Mountain. The warrior who survives this winter is the one who understands that the external world—the social media feeds, the official proclamations, and the manufactured consensus—is a landscape of ghosts. To look for validation or justice from a system designed to deny both is to leak your vital force. Instead, the warrior turns inward, treating their own mind as a sovereign territory that no government can occupy without consent.

Survival in a time of institutional criminality begins with the reclamation of your perception. We are currently witnessing a desperate "End of an Era" behavior from dictatorial structures. As Saturn and Neptune prepare to leave Pisces and enter Aries in the coming year, the old world is gasping for air. Like a cornered beast, it uses its most sophisticated tool—the illusion of being "good"—to paralyze the resistance of the people. The warrior’s primary inner resource is the "Saturnian Filter." This is the ability to look at a polished, humanitarian narrative and see the cold, hard mechanics of the Mars-Pluto square beneath it. It is the refusal to be gaslit by a screen. When the state speaks of "safety," the warrior looks at their neighbors' empty tables. When the state speaks of "unity," the warrior looks at the prisons. This commitment to the Evidence of the Senses is the first act of rebellion.

Furthermore, the Solstice chart places the Sun and Mars near the cusp of the Twelfth House, the realm of the unseen. This suggests that the most effective resistance of the coming year is not found in the streets where the cameras are watching, but in the "Underground." The way of the warrior in 2025 is the way of the seed beneath the snow. You survive by building invisible networks of care—local economies, private communication channels, and spiritual lineages that do not rely on the state’s approval. This is the power of Capricornian structure applied to the Aquarian dream of community. It is the realization that while the government may control the infrastructure of the city, they do not control the trust between two people who have decided to protect one another. The warrior spirit is found in the grandmother who saves seeds, the neighbor who shares a generator, and the teacher who tells the true history in whispers.

We must also address the exhaustion. The Moon in Capricorn during this Solstice reflects a public that is tired, perhaps even cynical. This fatigue is a weapon used by oppressive regimes; they hope that by overwhelming you with injustice, you will eventually collapse into a state of "learned helplessness." The warrior’s antidote to this is "Strategic Pessimism." Instead of hoping for a sudden hero or a political savior—which often leads to a cycle of heartbreak—the warrior accepts the reality of the mountain. They acknowledge that the climb is steep and the wind is cold. By letting go of the false hope that the system will "realize its mistakes," the warrior gains a terrifying kind of freedom. You no longer wait for permission to live, to feed your children, or to speak your truth. You operate as if you are already free, and you build your life in the cracks of the crumbling empire.

This winter, the inner resource most needed is a "Crystalline Heart." In the face of devastating criminality, the heart tends to either shatter or turn to stone. Neither serves the warrior. A shattered heart is too weak to fight, and a stone heart has forgotten what it is fighting for. The Crystalline Heart is different; it is hard and clear like a diamond, but it still allows light to pass through. It feels the grief of the world—the Neptune in Pisces influence—but it uses the Saturnian structure of Capricorn to channel that grief into precise, calculated action. It understands that anger is a fuel, but if it is not contained by a vessel of discipline, it will only burn the person who carries it.

As we move through this fall and into the deep winter, remember that the stars do not promise an easy victory, but they do promise a change of tide. The propaganda of the "Good Dictator" is the final, desperate act of a dying paradigm. The planetary shift toward Aries in 2026 will bring a fierce, uncompromising fire that will incinerate the illusions currently being spun. Your job is to stay alive, stay sane, and stay connected until that fire arrives. The warrior does not need to win every battle to win the war; they simply need to be the one still standing when the fog finally clears.

Hold your ground. Keep your secrets. Feed your kin. The silence of the winter is not the silence of the grave; it is the silence of the womb. Everything that is coming to life in the spring is currently being forged in the dark, cold, and quiet resolve of your own unbroken spirit.

To embody the energy of the Capricorn Solstice and the disciplined focus of the warrior spirit, your daily life must become a fortress. These habits are designed to bridge the gap between spiritual resolve and physical survival, ensuring that your energy is conserved for the long climb ahead.

The Protocol of the Sovereign Mind

The first habit of the warrior is the rigorous defense of the internal landscape. In an age of digital propaganda, you must treat your attention as your most valuable resource. Begin each day with a period of absolute silence, at least thirty minutes, before engaging with any electronic device. This creates a "Saturnian buffer" that allows your own thoughts to solidify before the world attempts to colonize them with curated narratives. When you do engage with information, practice the habit of "clinical observation." View the proclamations of flawed leaders not as truths or even as lies, but as data points revealing their own desperation. By removing the emotional "hook," you deny them the power to drain your spirit.

The Discipline of Physical Resilience

The warrior knows that a tired body creates a vulnerable mind. This winter requires a commitment to "Rooting." This means prioritizing sleep as a strategic necessity and consuming foods that are heavy, mineral-rich, and grounding. Incorporate a daily practice of physical tension and release; whether it is through weight-bearing exercise, long walks in the cold, or simple breathwork, you must keep the "Mars in Capricorn" energy flowing through your muscles rather than letting it stagnate into anxiety. If you feel overwhelmed by the injustice of the world, channel that heat into a physical task—fix something that is broken, organize your resources, or strengthen your immediate environment. Action is the only cure for the paralysis of grief.

The Strategy of the Silent Network

In a climate of institutional betrayal, the warrior moves with "calculated invisibility." Practice the habit of "Discrete Communication." This involves shifting your most important conversations and community-building efforts away from public platforms and into the physical world or encrypted spaces. Make it a weekly habit to connect with at least one trusted person in a way that is "off the grid." Share resources, trade skills, or simply reaffirm your shared reality. These small, private loops of trust form the "Underground" mentioned in the Solstice chart. By building these invisible structures, you ensure that when the "official" systems fail or become too toxic to inhabit, your foundation remains unshaken.

The Rhythms of Long-Term Vision

Finally, the warrior must master the habit of "Generational Thinking." Dictatorial propaganda thrives on the "crisis of the moment," keeping you trapped in a cycle of immediate, panicked response. Break this cycle by dedicating time each week to a project that will take years, not days, to complete. This could be learning a complex skill, planting a slow-growing garden, or documenting the true history of your people for future generations. This habit aligns you with the slow, inevitable power of Saturn. It reminds you that while the current "leaders" are fleeting shadows in the scale of time, the truth you preserve and the character you forge are permanent.

LENA GHIO   

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The Winter of the Unbroken • A Solstice Manual for Ordinary People in Extraordinary Times

FRANÇAIS app de traduction en haut

At this moment, I am struck by the flood of propaganda, the injustice faced by ordinary people like me, and the violence that shadows so many lives. This winter, I turn to Mundane Astrology to chart a path through the darkness. May it guide you and keep your spirit strong.

As the Sun enters Capricorn at the Winter Solstice, the year turns toward its most demanding season. Winter does not soothe. It clarifies. It strips life down to essentials and reveals what can endure without illusion.

For many people around the world, this winter arrives under sustained pressure: relentless propaganda from authoritarian leaders, economic hardship driven by policies that concentrate wealth and erode livelihoods, and systems that punish vulnerability while shielding power. The language of authority has grown distorted. Words such as care, safety, and unity are increasingly used to justify control, scarcity, and silence. Ordinary people feel the contradiction not as theory, but as fatigue in their bodies and confusion in their minds.

The Winter Solstice does not promise relief or rescue. It offers something more sober and more durable: a way to remain empowered, coherent, and human when external systems fail.

Discipline Instead of Illusion

Capricorn governs endurance, restraint, and long effort. The strength it represents is not dramatic. It does not announce itself. It persists. In periods of injustice, outrage is easily provoked and quickly depleted. Discipline, by contrast, preserves life-force.

The greatest danger in such times is not oppression alone, but disorientation. Propaganda works by overwhelming perception, blurring moral boundaries, and exhausting the capacity to distinguish truth from performance. Empowerment begins when people reclaim their attention and trust their lived experience again.

This winter asks ordinary people to treat their awareness as sovereign territory. External narratives—whether issued by governments, amplified by media, or circulated online—are often detached from the reality people inhabit. Seeking validation or justice from systems structured to deny both only drains energy. Clarity begins when permission to perceive is no longer sought.

Inner Ground: What Cannot Be Confiscated

Every system of control relies on a quiet surrender: the belief that one’s inner life depends on external approval. The first form of empowerment this winter is therefore internal.

There is a form of dignity that cannot be legislated away. Call it conscience, integrity, or self-respect—it remains intact unless willingly abandoned. When happiness, worth, or identity are no longer outsourced to institutions or leaders, something stabilizes. Even in hardship, a person who retains moral coherence is not defeated.

This is not withdrawal from reality. It is the ground from which endurance becomes possible.

Shared Ground: Resilience in Small Circles

Inner strength alone, however, is insufficient. Human beings do not survive winters—literal or metaphorical—alone. The next layer of empowerment is relational.

When large systems become unreliable or predatory, resilience contracts to its most durable scale: families, neighbors, friendships, and chosen communities. Not mass movements or public declarations, but trusted relationships built quietly over time.

History repeats this pattern with precision. When institutions fracture, survival depends on who shares food, skills, shelter, and truth. These bonds do not require ideological uniformity; they require trust, reciprocity, and presence.

Here, empowerment multiplies. Isolation weakens. Connection fortifies. A person embedded in a web of care is far harder to break than one standing alone.

Strategic Withdrawal: Choosing What Is Worth Your Energy

Not every battle strengthens the human spirit. Some conflicts exist precisely to consume attention, provoke despair, and fracture relationships. Wisdom lies in discerning which engagements preserve life—and which drain it.

One of the hardest truths of this winter is that walking away can be a form of victory. Refusing endless argument with bad-faith narratives, refusing to perform outrage on demand, refusing to sacrifice mental health to systems designed to exhaust—these are not acts of defeat. They are acts of conservation.

Loss has occurred. Injustice is real. Many have been harmed. Empowerment does not require denial. It requires remaining intact despite it.

You do not need to repair a broken system in order to survive it. You only need to preserve what is essential while it exhausts itself.

The Emotional Posture That Endures

Pressure hardens what it does not kill. The risk is becoming brittle.

Under sustained strain, the heart tends toward two extremes: collapse or numbness. Neither sustains life. What is required instead is emotional clarity—strong enough to hold grief, clear enough to act without being consumed by anger.

Feeling deeply is not weakness. Uncontained emotion is. Discipline gives feeling a vessel. Chosen action transforms grief into resolve.

This posture allows people to remain humane in inhumane conditions.

Daily Acts of Empowerment

Empowerment this winter will not arrive as a dramatic turning point. It is built through daily practices.

Protect attention. Begin days without immediate immersion in noise. Let your own thoughts take shape first.

Care for the body. Rest, nourishment, movement, and warmth are not indulgences; they are survival tools.

Strengthen quiet trust. Invest in people who share reality rather than spectacle.

Think beyond the moment. Learn skills, preserve knowledge, plant what will outlast the crisis.

These acts may appear small. They are not. They are how ordinary people remain alive and coherent while systems decay.

The Tide Will Turn

The cycles of history, like the cycles of the sky, do not promise ease. They promise change. Structures built on illusion eventually collapse under their own weight. The future belongs not to those who burn brightest in outrage, but to those who endure longest with their humanity intact.

Empowerment this winter is not about winning every battle. It is about staying sane, staying connected, and staying alive long enough to see the fog lift.

Hold your ground.

Protect what is real.

Care for your people.

The silence of winter is not the silence of the grave.

It is the silence of the womb.

What comes next is already being formed—quietly, patiently—within the unbroken spirit of ordinary people who refused to disappear.

See the astrology of the above reading here.

LENA GHIO   

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CODE 3 by Christopher Leone

TRAILER

From its opening moments, Code 3 announces itself not as a siren-blaring procedural but as a meditation—quiet, abrasive, often darkly funny—on our shared, unwinnable war against death. Watching Rainn Wilson’s Randy, an EMT so depleted he can barely muster contempt for his own bitterness, one feels less like a spectator than a confidant. The film does not ask whether death will win; it asks what constant proximity to that certainty does to the people tasked with holding it at bay, one call at a time, with little pay and even less gratitude. In that sense, Code 3 is less about emergencies than endurance, less about medicine than the cost of caring.

Wilson, of course, arrives trailing a cultural shadow. Dwight Schrute remains one of television’s most indelible creations, a role so complete it risks calcifying its actor in amber. Yet Wilson has long gravitated toward characters who vibrate with unease—men whose oddness is not a garnish but the meal. In films like Super or Cooties, his intensity becomes comic excess. Here, under the co-writing and direction of Christopher Leone, that same intensity is stripped of its protective irony. What’s left is something rawer: a man whose sarcasm is not a punchline but a coping mechanism that has begun to fail.

Code 3 unfolds over the course of a single 24-hour shift—Randy’s last, if all goes according to plan. After eighteen years riding in ambulances across Los Angeles, he has secured an exit ramp: a job in health insurance, bureaucratic and bloodless, a desk job that promises numbness over trauma. The cruel joke, which the film never overplays, is that this escape deposits him into the very machinery that profits from suffering. Still, Randy is desperate enough to take it. All he needs to do is survive one final night.

Leone, working from a script co-written with Patrick Pianezza, a veteran paramedic, understands the narrative temptation of the ticking clock and wisely resists fetishizing it. The countdown exists, but it does not dominate. Instead, the film invests in the shifting dynamics among its trio: Randy; Mike (Lil Rel Howery), the ambulance driver and emotional ballast; and Jessica (Aimee Carrero), a trainee on her first ride-along, still intoxicated by the idea that this work can save people in a meaningful, lasting way.

At first, Code 3 flirts with the expectations its cast invites. Howery supplies warmth and timing; Yvette Nicole Brown’s supervisor bristles with managerial exhaustion; Rob Riggle’s ER doctor barks like a caricature of institutional rage. The early calls tilt toward grotesque comedy—bodily fluids, public meltdowns, human behavior at its least dignified. There is a moment when the film seems poised to punch down, to use the suffering of patients as spectacle. But Code 3 pulls back just in time. The joke, it becomes clear, is never the person in crisis. The joke is the system that cycles them through pain with mechanical indifference.

This tonal recalibration is the film’s greatest achievement. Leone demonstrates a careful hand in distinguishing gallows humor from cruelty. The EMTs laugh not because their patients are absurd, but because laughter is the only oxygen left in a suffocating job. When a mentally ill man rants in the street or a familiar addict resurfaces, the humor is edged with recognition. These are not punchlines; they are returning characters in a tragedy that never closes its curtains.

The most harrowing sequence—one that crystallizes the film’s moral urgency—involves a Black man experiencing a psychotic episode. Randy and Mike know him; they have protocols, trust, a rhythm. Then the police arrive, weapons drawn, and the atmosphere curdles. Howery, often the film’s quiet heart, becomes its moral center here, pleading with an authority that mistakes force for control. The scene is staged without sensationalism, yet it tightens like a vise. Code 3 understands that for paramedics, the danger often does not come from the patient, but from the institutions ostensibly designed to help.

Wilson’s performance anchors these shifting registers. Randy begins the film as aggressively unpleasant, a man who seems to resent the very air others breathe. He breaks the fourth wall to lecture us on how little his job matters, how disposable he is, how the world will not notice when he leaves. Yet in the field, something changes. His hands steady. His voice softens. He becomes, unmistakably, competent—brilliant, even. This split is the film’s central paradox: Randy hates the job because he loves it too much. Caring has hollowed him out.

Wilson plays this not as a redemption arc but as an erosion. The compassion is still there; it simply costs more each time. In one devastating passage, the film shows the aftermath of a call that leaves no room for processing. There is no cinematic pause, no swelling score. The pager chirps, and the ambulance moves on. The moment passes, unmarked, and that is precisely the point. Trauma accumulates not in explosions but in sediment.

If Code 3 stumbles anywhere, it is in its portrayal of Riggle’s ER doctor, whose relentless hostility veers into operatic exaggeration. The intention—to show that everyone in emergency medicine is trapped in the same grinding machine—is sound. The execution, however, occasionally snaps the film’s fragile realism. Still, even this misstep underscores the movie’s larger thesis: cruelty is often exhaustion wearing a loud mask.

The film’s predictability—particularly in Randy’s eventual reckoning with his own despair—is less a flaw than a structural choice. Leone is not interested in narrative surprises so much as emotional inevitability. Hope, when it arrives, does not feel earned through clever plotting but through accumulation: small gestures, shared silences, the recognition of humanity where the job insists there is none. Jessica, initially positioned as the audience surrogate, complicates this trajectory with her own revelations, reminding us that idealism does not disappear; it adapts or it breaks.

In the end, Code 3 functions as both elegy and indictment. It honors paramedics as unsung first responders while refusing to sanctify their suffering. The film recognizes that heroism, when institutionalized, becomes exploitation. As its tagline mordantly observes, these workers provide “the best medical care minimum wage can provide.” That line lands not as satire but as quiet fury.

There will be louder films this year, slicker films, films with higher body counts and cleaner resolutions. But Code 3 lingers because it looks directly at something we prefer to avert our eyes from: the human cost of holding death at arm’s length, shift after shift, until the distance collapses. After watching it, the next time an ambulance passes, lights strobing, you may feel a flicker of recognition—not just for the emergency inside, but for the exhausted souls racing toward it, knowing they can never quite outrun the end.

LENA GHIO   

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