Rereading texts with a “technical” eye.
In my videos, I often propose a concrete reading of ancient texts: no metaphysical veils, but objects, procedures, and machines described with the vocabulary of the time. In this article, I pick up that thread: from the ápeiron of Anaximander, understood as dust, to the Bible read as an operational chronicle, passing through a “technically set up” oracle, Homeric automata, Ezekiel’s “wheels within wheels”, and a flying cylinder with precise measurements.
Apeiron, ‘afàr, and ‘adam: related terms that indicate matter and not an abstract idea
I start with Giovanni Semerano. In his work on the infinite, he challenges the idea, repeated for centuries, that the ápeiron of the early Greek thinkers means “infinite.”
He lines up the philological data: connections with the Semitic ‘āpār/’āfār (“dust, earth”), the Akkadian eperu, and the Greek family epeiros/apeiros (with dialectal variations). The error, he says, also stems from the absolutization imposed by the neuter article tò. If I shift the focus to the material sense, the Bible fits: in Genesis 2:7, I read that YHWH Elohim formed hā-ʾādām ʿāfār. Not “with” – that “with” is not there – but ʾādām ʿāfār as a definition: a living being of dust/earth.
It is a return to the original concreteness: the “first philosophers” appear once again as scientists of nature, not priests of the Idea.
Necromanteion: technological direction of experience
On Epirus, south of Corfu, excavations of the Necromanteion have revealed a ritual device built with scenic intelligence: narrow, dark stone labyrinths, hidden technical corridors, echo-absorbing surfaces, minimal lighting.
Pilgrims were prepared: isolation, fasting, a guided diet (wine, barley, raw broad beans, mushrooms), sometimes herbs and other substances that alter perception. The ‘spectre’ evoked descended thanks to a crane and a system of pulleys: a hooded priest, black on black, among shadows projected onto polished rock, emitted terrifying sounds.
It is a perfect example of perception engineering: the afterlife staged with the means of the here and now. This technique was also well known in Egypt: hydraulic systems, counterweights, and automata made statues speak and ‘divine’ doors move.
Hephaestus and automata: Homer without allegory
If I read Homer without obligatory allegories, I see Hephaestus as an engineer-designer. The Iliad presents the bellows of the “god’s” workshop obeying his word.
In Homer, the verb ‘keleúō’ means ‘to order, command, exhort to act’, often with the idea of immediate execution (it is the verb used for orders to rowers, warriors, and workers, and emphasizes a command-response relationship, not a vague gesture).
When in Book XVIII of the Iliad Hephaestus “keleúō the bellows” and immediately “the bellows set to work,” the text does not simply say “lit the bellows” in a generic way: it uses the verb of operational command → order given → action performed.
In addition, tripods on wheels that enter and exit by themselves from the divine assembly are described in detail, as are golden handmaidens “like living maidens” but not alive, endowed with voice and mind: in practice, real automatons. The epic uses accessible images, but the inventory is technical: automatic systems, kinematic chains, remote control. The myth is the language; the object, however, is a mechanism.
Buzzing arrows, “hornets,” and skin diseases
In the first book of the Iliad, Apollo “shoots” his arrows and, along with the menacing hiss that accompanies the shot, a plague spreads throughout the Achaean camp.
It is a dry narrative sequence: noise → impact → symptom.
The ancient author does not have our technical vocabulary to talk about pathogens, weapons: he records what he perceives and translates it into images within his reach — arrows that buzz and a disease that spreads among men and animals. The Bible is not far off on this point.
In Deuteronomy 7:20, we read that Yahweh “will send against them the ṣir‘āh,” a term commonly translated as “hornet”: the hornet stings, hurts the skin, frightens, and forces flight. But the Hebrew term opens up a broader semantic field: the ṣ-r-ʿ family also refers to concepts of prostration, skin disease, and collective panic. In other words, the text is not necessarily describing the presence of insects, but rather capturing in a single word the physical and psychological effects perceived by those who suffer the attack carried out with… let’s not make fanciful conjectures.
This is, in my opinion, the key: ancient authors describe real effects with terms available at the time. It is the same mechanism by which Native Americans, encountering the horse for the first time, called it “deer dog” (a “big dog” that runs like a deer); and when the train arrived, they spoke of an “iron horse”.
Or when, in 1947, the first sightings of unknown objects in the skies led to the coining of the expression “flying saucers”: a provisional label given to a concrete object for which we did not yet have the vocabulary.
That is why I draw a parallel between Apollo’s “buzzing” arrows and the biblical ṣir‘āh: in both cases, we are not dealing with edifying fables, but with texts that attempt to capture a phenomenon—pain, contagion, fear—with the words available to the authors. If I accept this premise, I stop forcing allegories and can begin to ask myself what they were actually observing.
Kavòd: weight, noise, energy—not “glory”
I take up and develop a theme taken from my book Skies Afire. When the Hebrew text speaks of kavòd, it is not evoking a mystical aura: it describes a material presence that arrives, settles, departs, makes noise, and produces light/heat, to the point of imposing distances and behavioral protocols. Ezekiel, for example, recounts that the kavòd “rose” and that its movement was accompanied by a roar “like a mass of water,” with the ground glowing beneath it: it is a physical dynamic, not an ethereal symbol.
Ezekiel also frames the kavod above operational entities (the “cherubim”), and when the kavod positions itself above them, the structure takes off: the cherubim “spread their wings” and rise from the ground “before my eyes.” Here, the author insists on the concreteness of the event and his direct observation of it.
In the book, I also show how the ruach that “lifts” and transports witnesses is then identified with the kavòd: two terms that, in practice, describe complementary aspects of the same platform (movement/wind and weight/energy). It is Ezekiel himself who connects the dots, not a later commentary.
Finally, the scene of the kavod’s takeoff and movement eastward is accompanied by space-time coordinates and operational sequences (lifting, translation, resting on a mountain): it is more like a technical report than a parable.
Galgal/Ofanim: “wheels within wheels”
Ezekiel describes a complex structure: below, the cherubim (operational “living” units), each with a wheel beside it, and above, a floor/vault (raqîa‘) supporting the platform on which the figure on the throne sits. The wheels are “one inside the other,” “full of eyes all around,” and—crucially—“they moved in every direction without turning.” On several occasions, the prophet adds that “the rûaḥ of the living creature was in the wheels”: the same force/breath/motion animates the whole (Ezekiel 1:15–21; 10:9–12).
I avoid generic allegory and take the operational syntax of the story seriously. “One wheel within another” is a formula that in mechanics refers to a coaxial kinematic mechanism: imagine two rings hinged on different axes (perpendicular to each other), like a double turntable or a gimbal joint. This arrangement allows you to change the attitude and direction of motion without having to rotate the entire vehicle on itself.
The text continues: they advance “without turning.” In practical terms: the body does not rotate the bow to change direction; it is the wheel system that orients the attitude and allows lateral/oblique translation. It is a holonomic behavior (movement in any direction on the plane) closer to a platform with independent kinematics than to a cart that steers by turning the rudder.
The “eyes” covering the rings are not a poetic device; the “full of eyes” surface does not add mysticism, but rather inserts a detail, a function. In modern terms, we could speak of portholes/sensors distributed around the perimeter: elements of navigation, obstacle avoidance, attitude control, and situational awareness (360°). The fact that Ezekiel notes the peripheral distribution suggests an “intelligent” ring.
The observation that “the same rûaḥ was in the wheels” dynamically links the modules: what moves the cherubim also moves the wheels. Not two separate systems (traction on one side, load on the other), but a single energy control chain.
It is Hebrew polysemy that allows, but at the same time imposes, different but semantically related readings of the same term. The meaning is given by the context, which must be followed with extreme attention. Even in English, the term spirit refers to the soul or alcohol, a ghost or team spirit, and much more… Nothing extraordinary, just read carefully and with an open mind.
When the cherubim rise, the wheels rise; when they stop, the wheels also stop; when they lift, the upper platform also lifts. This is the signature of an integrated system:
- Ofanim (wheels) → sustenance/maneuvering unit (balance and directionality without yaw of the body).
- Rûaḥ → common thrust/energy that synchronizes the modules.
- Upper platform → load/control center located above the raqîa‘.
The result is not a symbolic collage, but a repeated operational choreography: vertical takeoff (simultaneous lifting), translation “without turning” (change of direction without rotation of the body), stop (synchronous arrest), restart. All written with action verbs, directions, spatial relationships, and times. If I assume that Ezekiel describes what he sees with the words he has, his page functions as an observational report: “wheels within wheels” is not poetic embellishment, it is a snapshot of a mechanism of balance capable of governing the movement of the platform in every direction, without turning.
Flying megillah: a flying scroll (with precise measurements)
Zechariah is very clear: “What do you see?” – “I see a megillah flying” (Zechariah 5). Megillah in Hebrew refers specifically to scrolls of parchment containing texts from books. Depending on its use, it can be rolled up (cylindrical) or unrolled (rectangular). And the prophet, in fact, indicates its dimensions: twenty cubits long and ten wide. Translated into modern measurements (with a “regular” cubit of 45–50 cm), we are talking about an object approximately 9–10 m × 4.5–5 m: not an intangible symbol, but an extended body moving through the air. The text does not give us the speed or trajectory of the vehicle, but it does provide what an ancient observer could accurately observe: what it is (for him: a scroll), what it does (it flies), and how big it is.
Why is this detail important? Because it reveals an economy of language typical of ancient storytellers: they call the object by the name closest to their world (here, the ‘scroll’ of the texts) and then record its physical data (dimensions, movement, effects). It is the same pattern that I find in other passages: the cloud that “envelops” and lights up, the noise that grows, the light that dazzles, the prohibitions on approaching, the times of stopping and departing. Not a generic spiritual aura: the concrete perception of something that arrives, stays, and leaves, recounted with the vocabulary available. If I take this operational syntax seriously, the “flying megillah” ceases to be an indeterminate metaphor and returns to being what the text offers: an object seen, described with measurements and behaviors.
Pretending that ancient texts describe reality brings us closer to the message that the ancients wanted to convey to their readers
I claim something simple, almost trivial: the right—and I would say the duty—to read the Bible and the classics in a technical-concrete way. When we stop spiritualizing every difficult word, matter, tools, machines, and procedures come back to the surface. The ápeiron returns to its physical realm alongside the ‘āfār of Genesis; the Necromanteion reveals itself for what it is, a director’s cut of experience constructed with anechoic corridors, levers, lights, and psychophysical preparation, all aimed at deceiving the user; Hephaestus ceases to be just a myth and resumes his place as an engineer among bellows that “obey” and automata that perform precise functions.
The same applies to prophetic texts: if I take the grammar of the story seriously, Ezekiel’s “wheels within wheels” become a coherent system of balance that allows one to move without turning; and Zechariah’s megillah is not a devotional evanescence, but an object defined by name and measure: “scroll,” “flies,” “is this long and that wide.” It is the normal logic of someone who observes something they do not know how to name: they use the closest name and note physical data. It is no different from what the natives did when they christened the horse “dog deer” or from our instinctive “flying saucers” of 1947.
This is the point: pretend they are telling the truth. Pretend that the writer described what they saw and heard with the vocabulary they possessed. If I accept this minimal hypothesis, the allegory ceases to be a conditioned reflex, the only and multipurpose explanation, and leaves room for verifiable questions: what produces that buzzing sound? Why are distances and stopping times needed? How does a movement “without turning” work? It is a more sober, less sensational field of investigation, but—paradoxically—more fascinating, because it restores the density of reality to the texts.
What I have presented here is only a schematization drawn from my specific argument. For those who wish to delve deeper, in the book Skies Afire, Erich von Däniken and I develop this type of theme with much more evidence, highlighting and documenting how it is almost omnipresent in the ancient cultures of all continents: a coincidence as random as it is incredible? It is an invitation: let’s try, together, to read without veils. And let’s see what happens.
