Nemo rooftop… It’s got something going for it, though I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what. What grabs the eye? Sometimes it’s the interplay of lines.

The view is pretty good, though there are times I do wish it was at least another 97 metres higher. Not being greedy, but you know how it is; the higher you are, the more you see.

The film showing in the open air cinema is about a mood-shifting city: one that remains the same even though it changes every time you look at it. The price of admission? A slow climb to the top.

Steps, water, metal, wood, altitude: everything you need for a bit of peace and freedom from the hustle and noise going on down below. Of course, when the sun comes out, and the school kids arrive, the quiet disappears. Something about the roof makes kids lose their minds: irrational battles over who gets to play on what and for how long, while desperate, wild-eyed teachers alternate between trying to bring order to their flocks or contemplating a new, quieter line of work. The youth were not around today.

It’s also and excellent spot for pointing out things that need pointing out. “No, not there. There.” she says.

“I still can’t see anything.” he replies.

“Look harder.”

The spectators’s attention was focused on the popular lift button mystery movie “How Many Times Do I Need To Press This Button Before The Lift Comes?”

Sometimes it has more to do with what you can see from the roof than with the roof itself. Take the leaves on those trees for instance: usually they look down on me; today I’m looking down on them. The point being, when in need of a boost to the old self-esteem, climb onto a roof and take a look at the world around you.

As I’m taking a photograph of him, is there someone taking a picture of me taking a photo of him? Or an endless chain of photographers snapping photographers capturing photographers, and so on? Or, has the rooftop altitude affected my thinking and sent it into a loop of unnecessary curiosity?

We human beings do seem to like our rows. Rows of windows, rows of bricks and boats, rows of dotted white lines, rows of trees and lampposts, and anything else you can think of.

I wonder what future archaeologists will make of our rows.

From left to right, and as far as the eye can see; thousands of different roofs and chimneys, windows and openings, shapes and sizes come together and become a city.

Them phones, them phones: powerful enough to put the faraway world into our pockets, and make our immediate surroundings disappear.

Funny how memories of some of the things we read and heard and watched as kids affect the way we see the world. Whenever I see anyone holding an umbrella, I expect them to either start floating or breaking out into a tap dance routine. They never do.

A couple came up to the roof with their mini-dog. At least I believe it was a dog and not a dressed up mouse. But that’s not the point. The point is… how does the Nemo roof appear to a little dog?

The rhythm of objects: the fountains, the seats, the concrete slabs and metal grilles, the trees, the steps… If you look long enough and well enough, your eyes will see the music of these bits and pieces.

The summit of mount Energetica was not quite what they’d expected: it turned out to be a lot more fun. Before long, the adventurers had released their inner children and began playing with the installations in a manner that both suprised and impressed the young people present.

Looking down upon the city from this roof, or any other, usually generates a two-sided thought within my head. On the one hand there’s serious admiration for all involved in making the city work. And on the other, there is hardcore pity for those in charge of taming the chaos below.

It could have been the time of, or the effect of reaching that particular altitude; perhaps there was something more than coffee in my coffee... The point is, that pigeon and the fountains and the steps teamed up and began to dance in a manner that I’d never seen before—and have never seen since.

And this is just a tiny little reminder that rooftops are always cool—no matter the weather.