Monica's book

Monica is offering for TV/Film rights the following book, Fringe Dweller: On The Nightshift ...True Stories Of An Afterlife Paramedic.

Fringe Dweller is a recounting of Monica's personal experience as a medium and lucid dreamer. It is, in effect, an insider’s look at the Other Side from the Other Side. Monica's accounts are not channeled. They are the first-hand experiences of someone who enters alternate realities in ethereal form and works from that reality to guide the souls of the traumatized dead to the light, heal the energy bodies of those still living, and interact with beings that inhabit spirit realms.

Fringe Dweller combines cosmic adventure with down-to-earth thought in an often light-hearted personal narrative. Part art, part memoir, and part philosophy, this book is a work of the heart. It is Monica's step into the light—a coming out of the psychic closet. Monica is not seeking converts. Her purpose is to encourage readers to look within themselves for answers, to comfort those who have lost a loved one, and to help those who are having their own psychic experiences to feel less alone in their often strange and secretive worlds.
Each of the ten main chapters is derived from, and illustrated by, a painting that Monica has created from her lucid dream memories. The strong and sometimes haunting paintings provide the structure for this book. The chapters are related but independent episodes punctuated by stories of life on the Other Side.

chapter 1: love's light

acrylic on canvas = 5.5'h x 3.5'w

love's light

Dream Journal entry:

Monday, August 9 2004

I am in the matrix. For me to be here means a lost soul is ready to go home.

I have a vague corporeal structure—my ethereal body—with just enough form to appear human. I’m holding the hand of the person I’m leading. In the darkness that surrounds us, we head toward the cone of brilliant light that is ahead. As we draw closer the light intensifies, becoming brighter than any sun that human eyes have seen, yet its brilliance does not spill out of its own form to light the space around it. The light is held within itself, waiting for the return of the spirit that approaches, waiting to bring the spirit home.

We feel the ineffable love that radiates from the cone of light—an overwhelming sense of peace, calm, wonder, compassion and wellness. The unutterable joy increases as we come yet closer, and all fear or hesitation is forgotten in its ecstatic expression.

My being opens in wonder and innocence. I am free to be as vulnerable as a newborn, without fear of judgment. Waves of ecstasy wash through me and back again to the light from which they came in an exchange of pure and all-consuming love. In a fraction of a moment I know what it means to be at one with something. I am filled with a sense of connection to everyone and everything—the Source of all that is.

I stop at the light’s edge still holding the hand of the soul that I have led here, and gently release him into the blissful light. My hand grazes the luminosity and I am pierced to every quarter of my being with the unconditional, absolute sense of infinite love that is the light.

Although I yearn to drift into the light along with the person I brought here, I know that that is not my purpose in coming, nor is it my time. I gently let go of his hand as I feel his essence begin to rise, watching in awe as he disappears into the apex of the cone before finally vanishing into the intensity of love’s light.

He has gone Home and I am breathless with the gratitude of having come here, and the memory of my communion with eternal, limitless, infinite love.

chapter 2: thank you

acrylic on canvas = 2.5'h x 7.5'w

thank you

Dream Journal entry:

Thursday, April 30 2004

I lie on my bed, exhausted. I’m asking, “What’s next, what’s next?” in a habitual litany. I have been asking that question for the past four months as I saw my friend Lynn through her last days before she died of cancer. I have been working for those months through the nights, led and taught by the light beings who came to help me in the energy healing, and through the days to see to her physical needs. And now that it is over, the question echoes as if I have not quite let her go, as if there is something more that needs to be done.

I realize what it is. I have forgotten to thank all of those who came to help and teach me—the beings that exist on another plane, in another dimension, and bring their tireless and infinite love to the energy work. They had come to me in dreams with diagrams and charts, showing me where to lay my hands, how to direct and apply my energy. They had come with suggestions for diet and homeopathic remedies. They had given me love and guidance and support throughout every minute of the emotionally intense journey that I had been on with Lynn.

I am filled with gratitude, brimming with thanks for all that I remember of those days and nights. Suddenly, the room begins to fill with spirits—beings of light—pouring their love into me and into the air around me. There seem to be hundreds of them.

For a moment doubt makes me ask, “Is this really happening? Can this happen in waking hours?” My doubt is put to rest by the evidence of my own eyes, which see how the light emanates from their hearts, and see the infinite compassion shining on their faces. They float above the ground, swaying gently as seaweed does in the ocean’s tide. Whatever doubt I have is absorbed and set aside by the physical joy I feel in every cell of my body as gentleness and love lift me out of time and into the worlds beyond—the soul’s home.

As one, they raise their right arms and wave as if to say, “It’s all right that you forgot us. And you’re welcome” in a gesture of infinite generosity.

**************

chapter 3: the flacker

tint on canvas = 5'h x 3'w

the flacker

Dream Journal entry:

Tuesday, February 14 2006

It’s a pleasant social moment in dreamtime. I’m telling a story to a friend about the escapades of my Burmese cat battling it out with a squash.

A sound intrudes from the background. It’s faint at first, but as it gets louder it starts to annoy me. It’s like the stutter of fingers being rubbed on an inflated balloon and rates right up there in my books with nails on the chalkboard. I involuntarily shiver.

Doing my best to ignore the distraction, I carry on with my tale, but the noise is persistent and gets louder yet. “Don’t you hear that?” I finally ask my friend, but she claims not to have heard a thing. Shrugging, I pick up the thread of the story a third time and just as I do, I become aware of a ghostly presence out of the corner of my eye.

It’s a young woman—perhaps in her late teens— wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved blue striped shirt. She’s soaking wet. Her long, straggly blonde hair is plastered in matted strands against her face. Her face is gaunt. She looks as though she drowned.

I feel her close now, standing just by the bedside, but I refuse to give up my story, anxious to get to the punch line.

Suddenly her form begins to flicker back and forth like the strobing image from an old film projector. Between the flickering image and the stuttering sound, it’s nothing short of creepy. My patience at an end, I finally give in and turn to her. ‘Stop it!!” I demand firmly, ‘You’re freaking me out!”

“Well it got your attention didn’t it?” she said, smiling slightly in apology.

“Yes,” I admit, “but it freaks me out, so please stop doing it!”

“It’s called flacking,” she replied, and with that she disappeared. Although she hadn’t told me her name, I knew it was Debbie.

***************

chapter 4: the greys

acrylic on canvas = 5.5'h x 7'w

the greys

Dream Journal entry:

Wednesday, January 14 2003

It was not so bad at first when it was like the crunching of dry autumn leaves underfoot. But still, a small chill ran up my spine and down the backs of my legs like a breeze from the long shadows of approaching winter. A warning of the cold.

The sound grew then, as I listened. What is that? I thought. Is that leaves? No, not leaves. It was too persistent, too relentless. It was something in the walls, something wanting to come out. It was more of a¼scuttling. Like a swarm of a thousand insects, coming out of the walls, perhaps, coming from nowhere and everywhere. Images flitted through my mind—the dust bowl, the trembling farmer, Egypt, locusts with mandibles clicking in voracious appetite.

The hairs all down the back of my neck stood on end. I felt a nameless dread. Then I saw them—the source of my growing fear. Grey figures— looming, needy, hungry, always wanting. They were huddling together, bound to each other by their dark energies, by the heaviness of their woe. They clothed themselves in it, this woe, gathering it around themselves for whatever ragged warmth it might provide. But of course there was no warmth. There was only poverty, cold, rejection and aching, desperate hunger.

As one they surged towards me, wanting. Wanting what? Nothing, everything. Just wanting, empty, filled with lack. Huge with lack.

All of a sudden, I felt tiny—a small light in the oppressive despair that moved toward me. If that darkness reached me, I would be lost. I would be consumed, left nothing but a stalk stripped of its grain.

My mind hurried to build the box of mirrors that would protect me. Above, below, forward and back, the reflective surfaces began to take shape, but it was too late. Already I could feel the dark energy starting to suck me under.

“Ooooh, #%&*!!!” I thought, “get me outta here!” And with that I was gone.

**********

chapter 5: the healing

acrylic on canvas = 5.5'h x 3.5'w

the healing

Dream Journal entry:

Friday, November 1 2002

This is the first time I knowingly work with a team of energy healers.

I have been astrally ‘dropped’ into a something already in progress and I am not sure for a moment where I am or what is happening. As I try to orient myself, I notice a young man asleep and floating horizontally above a bed. We are not alone for long. Seven figures gather around him. They are intent, filled with purpose.

These figures are ethereal light beings. A brilliant glow emanates from their heart center and they glow. Even though I perceive them as light, I can vaguely see that they wear robes that fall to their feet as they float in the matrix.

We are surrounded by darkness. I have no sense of geometric boundary. There is no top or bottom, no constraining side walls in the space of our healing.

None of the figures speak to each other or touch as they line up on either side of the patient, four on his right side and three on his left. I move into the space remaining, bringing our number to eight.

I know what is going on and what to do. I’ve done this before. We have assembled here to heal this young man. There is no communication or instruction; we all know our parts. Together we proceed to work in a seamless choreography to cleanse, rid, eradicate, release and clear his physical body of disease. Our efforts are utterly synchronized in the knowing that only together is it possible for us to draw the diseased energy out.

None of us touches him. As one, we project our healing energy. I watch as our collective energies merge, twining together to create a vortex, which rises up, taking with it all the clinging, unclean elements and dispersing them above his body.

**********

chapter 6: grey wolf

acrylic on canvas = 3'h x 4'w

grey wolf

Dream Journal entry:

Saturday, December 27 2003

As I l lay down and ready my mind to enter the Night Shift world, I ask for an image that I can identify as a spirit guide.

The dreamtime opens, showing me earth’s moon, full and shining. As the full moon always does, its gentle brilliance draws me into a peaceful and thoughtless contemplation, and so I gaze at it without expectation, just waiting.

The image begins to shift as I watch. Feathers form over the round and placid face of the shining moon, transforming it into the visage of an owl. The feathers are as softly colored as moonlight—gentle earthy umbers, buttery ochers and misty greys tinged with blue. Layer upon circular layer appear until the luminous orb is completely masked by them.

I sense a presence forming behind the mask; his essence is Native. He is completely hidden except for his eyes, which glow with wisdom, kindness and understanding. They are the amber eyes of a wolf.

A spirit guide has come to my calling. His name is Grey Wolf.

********************

chapter 7: frog medicine

acrylic on board = 4' x 4'

frog medicine

Dream Journal entry:

Friday, September 24 2004

All I see before me is darkness. An image begins to take form and along with it a stream of information infuses me. My mind can’t keep up but I know that my greater consciousness absorbs and understands it all.

The image begins as a square of green moss agate, stone of healing and balance. Broken green lines emanate from the corner of each side, forming a cross inside a circle. Frogs line the arms of the cross, squiggles coming outward from their feet. Frogs and squiggles vibrate at such an incredible speed that they glow a phosphorescent green, shimmering in the darkness.

I receive the overall message—’Frog Medicine’

The idea of frog medicine feels like something remembered, a retrieval of something long past.

**************************

chapter 8: mars

acrylic on canvas = 3' x 3'

mars

Dream Journal entry:

Wednesday, March 5 2003

I feel myself drifting high above a planet. I let the current of the planet’s orbit draw me closer in a sweeping arc until I am close enough to see what I can only describe as a wondrous city below me. I know that I am looking down on Mars.

The layout of the city is circular. The streets are curved and the buildings are shaped like wedges to fit the layout. Some of the buildings are topped with large domes and smaller silvery nodules. All the buildings emanate from the central space, which I sense was once a gathering place for the inhabitants, but there are no inhabitants visible, for this city has been empty of living creatures for years beyond counting.

I am filled with admiration by the simple functional geometry of the city. It looks as if it has been designed ergonomically: The patterns of streets and structures are meant to encourage the easy flow of movement. I get a sense that the inhabitants moved in a choreography of awareness of each other so serene that they strode without hesitation through these streets.

Nor does the city fight with its surroundings. It fits into the rust-colored landscape with ease and grace. There are no walls at the perimeter. Instead, the city sits in a crater,

which acts as a natural retaining wall. The land at the edge curves upward and flows out into the environment without barriers.

The expanses surrounding the city are barren and empty. Everything is utterly still and silent. I am looking at a ghost town, but there is no sense of abandonment or loss in that understanding. The feelings that are lodged in the architecture of the individual buildings and the city as a whole are of love, peace, knowledge and understanding.

*******************

chapter 9: synchronicity

acrylic phospherous on board = 4'h x 5'w

synchronicity

Dream Journal entry:

Wednesday, November 20 2002

Crack! I’m awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of what seems like someone quickly and forcefully smacking their hand down on the armrest to the left of me. Okay! They have my attention. Adrenaline racing, I’m not sure yet what to expect.

Time passes.

Nothing happens.

I’m half-awake now, noting the room around me. Quite frankly, I’m not used to wakeful interaction while on the Night Shift. I close my eyes hoping for either communication or a return to sleep. In complete contrast to my feelings earlier, an overwhelming sense of trust descends upon me. I feel totally safe.

My eyes are closed, but I can see through my eyelids as if they are open. Uncertain if this is just an image made up in my mind, or if it is really happening, I open my eyes for a moment. Yup. It’s out there. I close my eyes again and begin to scan the room. An intense, phosphorescent glow begins to shape itself into a web of cells, each filled with multiple hieroglyphs. I feel as if I’m seeing a plane of existence sandwiched between realities.

The web grows until it completely surrounds me. I see it as if from the inside of a filmy bubble. I ask if I might get a closer look and immediately it moves closer as though responding to my request, allowing me to get a clearer view of the symbols held within the cells of the web.

Each cell contains multiple linear stick figures that remind me of petroglyphs—simple eye, human, and animal forms. The human figures are all turned right, and always face the animals. The eyes number between two and six for each cell. I know that each cell represents a community of interplanetary species and the notion of universal co-existence.

I hear a very loud and persistent message: “We’re here, everywhere, all the time.” And the name of the experience comes to me also, like a passing sigh: “Synchronicity.”

*******************

chapter 10: the grid

acrylic on canvas= 5.5'h x 3.5'w

the grid

Dream Journal entry:

Wednesday, June 24 2004

I’m immersed in darkness. My body is vibrating at a particular frequency—a constant droning hummmmmmmmmmmm. Shapes and symbols hover before me, grouped in series of threes.

As I study the symbols, I notice that my body is vibrating at one rate and my feet at another. The soles of my feet feel like they are on fire. What begins as a localized intense hurt soon grows into excruciating pain. Unable to bear it any longer, I take a step forward.

With one simple step I find myself in a wondrous, intricate, grid-like web of interwoven silver light strands. The shimmering grid extends beyond my view, stretching off into the receding darkness. Close by, I can see that where the strands intersect, lights glint and sparkle.

I freeze! I dare not come into contact with this network; I haven’t a clue where I am nor what the potential hazards could be. I decide it’s best to just hold space, stay in the moment, and take in every detail I can.

I see that each strand is slightly different from its mates in both thickness and luminosity. Their intersecting points vary in degrees of glint and sparkle. Each emits its own sound like a tuning fork—a note so clear and pure you can feel it vibrating through your being.

I was completely surrounded by these strands of silver frequencies when the message came: “The soul crossover is shifting and it can be disorienting, not just for the ghosts, but for the guides too.”

**********************

Monica's literary agent and manager

For literary, media, TV/Film rights,and inquiries, contact Sharlene Martin at Martin Literary Management.




email: Sharlene@MartinLiteraryManagement.com
web: www.MartinLiteraryManagement.com